;•  : 


JOURNAL  OF  SMALL  THINGS 


Other  Books  by 
Helen  Mackay 

Accidentals 
Stories  for  Pictures 
The  Cobweb  Cloak 
Half  Loaves 
Houses  of  Glass 
London  one  November 


JOURNAL   OF 
SMALL    THINGS 


BY 

HELEN  MACKAY 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 


FOR 

MARGARET 


3716SG 


PREFACE 

'  I^HOSB  who  have  read  Mrs.  Mackay's  book, 
•*•  which  she  entitled  Accidentals,  will  know 
exactly  what  to  expect  from  her  new  book, 
Journal  of  Small  Things.  Like  the  early 
one  it  consists  of  a  series  of  little  sketches  more 
or  less  in  the  form  of  a  diary,  vignettes  taken 
from  a  very  individual  angle  of  vision,  pictures 
in  which  the  hand  of  the  painter  moves  with 
exquisite  fineness.  They  are  singularly  grace- 
ful, very  delicate  and  also  very  pathetic,  these 
random  memories  of  a  sympathetic  friend  of 
France,  who  describes  what  she  saw  during 
the  opening  stages  of  the  war  in  Paris  and  in 
provincial  towns.  The  precise  quality  of  them 
is  that  they  are  extremely  individual  and  inti- 
mately concerned  with  little  things — episodes  half 
observed,  half  forgotten,  which  cluster  round  a 
big  tragedy.  The  author's  mind  is  bent  on  the 
record  of  such  little  things  as  might  escape  some 
observer's  notice,  but  which  to  her  give  all  the 
salt  and  savour  to  her  experiences, 


Preface 

Listen  to  this.  "I  want  to  make  notes  of 
things,  not  of  the  great  things  that  are  happening, 
but  of  the  little  things.  I  want  to  feel  especially 
all  the  little  everyday  dear  accustomed  things, 
to  take  hold  of  the  moods  of  them,  and  gather  up 
their  memories,  to  be  put  away  and  kept,  and 
turned  back  to  from  always  afterwards.  It  is  as 
if  they  were  things  soon  to  be  gone  away  out  of 
the  world  and  never  to  be  again. ' ' 

Wherever  she  moves,  Mrs.  Mackay  carries  with 
her  this  exquisite  sensitiveness  to  things  which 
we  might  rashly  call  insignificant  or  unessential, 
and  it  adds  immensely  to  the  poignancy  of  her 
sketches  and  to  the  truth  of  her  record.  How 
valuable  is  her  method  we  can  judge  from  another 
extract  concerned  with  "The  River. "  "I  know 
why  the  river  goes  so  slowly,  lingering  as  much 
as  ever  she  can,  and  a  little  sadly.  It  is  because 
just  here  she  leaves  behind  her  youth  and  wildness 
of  great  mountains,  her  mood  of  snows  and  rocks, 
cascade  and  woods  and  high  rough  pastures, 
cow-bells  and  mountain-horn.  Going  down  into 
the  classic  countries,  infinitely  old,  those  deep, 
rich  countries,  she  pauses  here,  between  the  high 
clear  lift  and  lilt  and  thrill  of  mountain  music 
and  the  cadenced  melody  of  Provence. " 

The  figures  of  the  narrative  are  for  the  most 
part  only;  outlined  against  this  background  of 


Preface 

vividly  remembered  things.  But  however  faint 
the  tracery,  the  character  clearly  emerges. 
Whether  it  be  Madame  Marthe,  or  the  apache 
girl  Alice,  or  Claire,  or  the  old  Cure  who  was 
going  to  preach  a  fierce  sermon  until  his  eyes 
fell  upon  the  pathetic  upward  look  of  his  congre- 
gation, and  especially  of  Madelon,  and  then  forgot 
all  his  harsh  words — from  beginning  to  end  the 
various  figures  live  and  move  before  our  eyes. 
The  record  is  sad  of  course;  it  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  full  of  a  keen  pathos  almost  unre- 
lieved. But  there  is  never  any  false  sentiment 
nor  any  touch  of  the  vulgar  or  commonplace. 
Mrs.  Mackay's  book  is  the  work  of  a  sincere  and 
genuine  artist. 

W.  L.  COURTNEY. 


PART  I 
From  a  House  on  a  Road  to  Paris 


From  a  House  on  a  Road  to  Paris 
Sunday,  July  a6th,   1914 

WHEN  we  came  back  from  Mass,  up  from  the 
village  by  the  rue  du  Chateau  and  through 
the  park  and  the  garden,  the  yesterday's  papers 
were  arrived  from  Paris. 

I  delayed  down  in  the  parterres,  it  was  so 
beautiful.  There  had  been  rain,  and  the  sun- 
shine was  golden  and  thick  on  all  the  wet  sweet 
things,  the  earth  of  the  paths,  the  box  edges, 
the  clipped  yews,  the  grass  of  the  lawns,  the  roses 
and  heliotrope  and  petunias  in  the  stately  garden 
beds. 

There  is  a  certain  smell  in  old  formal  gardens, 
that  seems  to  me  always  to  mean  France.  It  is 
like  the  stab  of  an  arrow.  I  feel  it,  swiftly,  in 
my  heart,  and  stop  and  hold  my  breath,  and  say, 
"This  is  France/' 

The  news  in  the  papers  was  strange. 

We  thought  we  would  go  to  the  village,  to  the 
Place,  and  feel  what  the  village  felt. 

3 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

We  went  along  the  terrace  and  around  between 
the  south  tower  and  the  moat  to  the  entrance 
court,  and  across  the  moat  bridge,  where  the 
watch-dogs  were  chained  one  on  either  side,  to  the 
green  court,  and  out  of  the  big  wrought-iron,  vine- 
covered  gates,  to  the  Place  aux  Armes. 

All  the  village  was  there  in  its  Sunday  dress, 
under  the  lime  trees. 

The  swallows  were  flying,  high  about  the  Dun- 
geon Tower  and  low  across  the  big  old  grassy 
cobbles  of  the  Place.  They  were  crying  their 
strange  little  cry.  I  thought,  "They  are  calling 
for  storm. "  And  yet  the  sky  was  blue  and  gold 
behind  the  Dungeon  Tower. 

"We  went  to  get  the  papers  in  the  little  dark 
shop  that  smells  of  spices  and  beeswax  and  shoe 
leather. 

I  asked:  What  did  Monsieur  Crety  think  of  the 
chances  of  war! 

He  shrugged  his  old  shoulders,  and  said  he  had 
some  fine  fresh  chocolate  and  nougat  out  from 
Paris. 

We  went  back  and  read  the  papers  and  ate  the 
chocolates  and  nougat  on  the  terrace. 

A  host  of  little  white  butterflies  kept  clouding 
over  the  terrace  steps,  between  the  pots  of  roses 
and  heliotrope. 

There   was   a   great  brief   thunderstorm   while 

4 


Sunday,  July  26th 

we  were  at  lunch,  and  then  the  sun  came  out. 

We  motored  through  the  wet  sunshiny  country, 
softly  dipped  and  softly  lifted,  blue-green  forest 
and  wide  ripe  harvest  fields,  blue  and  purple  and 
crimson  beet  fields,  long  low  brown  and  rust-red 
towns  with  square  church  towers,  Sunday  people 
out  in  the  doorways,  and  swallows  always  flying 
low  and  crying. 

"We  had  tea  in  Soissons,  at  Maurizi's,  and  went 
to  the  cathedral,  where  the  offices  were  over,  and 
to  the  pastrycook's,  Monsieur  Pigot's,  to  buy  some 
cherry  tarts. 

Home  by  the  long  straight  road  between  the 
poplars. 

It  was  so  cold  suddenly  that  one  imagined 
autumn.  There  was  a  wind  come  up,  and  some 
yellow  leaves  were  flying  with  it. 

After  dinner  we  had  a  fire  lighted  in  the  tiled 
room.  The  heat  brought  out  all  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  roses  in  the  blue  bowls,  and  the 
flames  sent  lovely  lights  and  shadows  to  play 
along  the  old  stone  walls. 

I  do  not  think  I  would  be  afraid  if  it  were  not 
for  my  dreams. 

Every  night  I  have  dreamed  of  galloping  horses 
and  thunder — or  cannon,  I  don't  know  which — 
and  of  blood,  dripping  and  dripping  down  the 
chateau  stairs.  I  see  the  blood  in  red  pools  on 

5 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

the  worn  old  grey  stones  of  the  stairs,  and  in 
black  stains  on  the  new  carpet.  Some  of  the 
nights  I  have  stayed  up,  walking  the  floor  of  my 
room  that  I  might  not  sleep  and  dream  so  horribly. 


Monday,  July  27$ 

'  1^  HE  papers  make  things  look  better ;  we  think 
•••  it  cannot  be,  cannot  possibly  be. 

But  I  am  always  afraid,  because  of  my  dreams. 
My  dreams  have  been  very  bad  all  night. 

I  was  in  the  potager  most  of  the  morning,  work- 
ing hard. 

In  the  afternoon  some  neighbors  came  to  tea. 
They  came  from  quite  far,  motoring  across  the 
forests,  and  none  of  them  had  known  the  house. 

I  loved  showing  them  the  old  place  that  is  not 
mine,  the  colours  that  are  faded  and  worn  till 
they  have  become  beautiful,  the  things  that  by 
much  belonging  together  are  fallen  into  harmony. 

I  do  not  believe  that  the  people  of  these  old 
houses  can  love  them  quite  as  hopelessly  as 
strangers  do. 

There  is  a  certain  special  peculiar  chateau  smell, 
that  trails  down  long  galleries,  and  lingers  on  the 
stairs,  that  lurks  in  far  corners  of  the  rooms,  and 
abides  in  all  the  cupboards,  and  behind  the 

6 


Monday,  July  27th 

tapestries,  and  in  the  big  carved  chests,  that 
clings  to  wood  and  waxed  floors  and  stone,  and 
stirs  along  the  heavy  sombre  walls,  and  that 
means  France,  like  the  smell  of  old  gardens  of 
box  and  yew.  It  stabs  one — always  the  arrowy 
perfume — and  makes  one  feel  France  with  an 
odd  intensity.  From  a  far  way  off  one  would  be 
homesick  remembering  it. 

We  had  Monsieur  Pigot's  tarts  for  tea,  and  sat 
for  a  long  time  about  the  dining-room  table, 
talking  of  how  afraid  we  had  been  of  war,  yester- 
day. 

We  went  up  into  the  Dungeon  Tower  and  down 
into  the  souterrains,  and  then  all  along  the  ram- 
part walls. 

I  love  the  way  the  little  town  crowds  up  close 
to  the  ramparts,  the  cobbled  grass-grown  streets, 
the  roofs  all  softened  and  coloured  by  ages  and 
weathers. 

A  child  laughed  down  in  the  street;  a  woman 
called  to  it;  there  was  a  scamper  of  little  feet, 
and  the  two  of  them  were  laughing  together. 

Off  beyond  the  roofs  we  could  see  the  blonde 
of  the  ripe  grain  fields,  and  the  purple  of  the 
forests. 

I  had  so  intensely  a  sense  of  its  all  being  for  the 
last  time.  I  said  to  Manon,  "It  can't  last,  it  is 
too  beautiful. ' ' 

7 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


Tuesday,   July   28th 

feels,  in  all  these  days,  as  if  there  were  a 
great  storm  coming  up.  I  keep  thinking  all 
of  the  time,  there  is  a  great  storm  coming  up. 
That  is  an  absurd  thing  to  make  note  of,  as  if  it 
had  some  strange  meaning,  as  if  it  were  not  just 
that  in  all  these  days,  really,  always  there  is  a 
storm  coming  up. 

I  never  have  known  such  storms,  nor  yet  such 
sunsets.  The  sunsets  are  like  the  reflection  of 
great  battlefields  beyond  the  world.  One  is 
frightened  because  of  the  sunsets,  more  than  be- 
cause of  the  storms.  Every  day  while  the  sun 
shines  there  is  the  rumble  of  thunder  about  all 
the  horizon.  It  is  like  the  cannon  of  my  dreams. 
All  the  time,  while  the  sun  shines,  great  thunder- 
clouds are  gathering  upon  the  horizon,  mounting 
up  from  the  horizon,  white  and  yellow,  and  purple 
and  black.  The  sunshine  is  heavy,  and  thick; 
you  do  not  know  if  the  sky  is  dark  blue  or  purple, 
and  at  sunset  the  dark  cloud-shapes  threaten  and 
menace. 

Whatever  one  does,  one  has  the  feeling  of  doing 
it  before  the  storm,  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm. 
When  the  storm  does  come,  with  its  crashing  and 
blinding,  it  brings  no  relief.  It  is  as  if  these  mid- 

8 


Wednesday,  July  29th 

summer  storms  meant  something  for  which  the 
whole  world  waited. 

And  that  feeling  of  the  end  of  things  grows 
always  stronger.  There  is  no  reason.  Nobody, 
here  at  least,  troubles  about  war. 

This  morning  we  were  caught  by  a  wonderful 
thunderstorm  out  in  the  fields. 

Now  from  the  terrace  we  are  watching  the 
sunset,  all  of  thunder-clouds,  purple  and  blue  and 
black,  and  of  fire. 

Three  of  the  white  peacocks  have  come  up  to 
tea  with  us,  under  the  big  cedar. 


Wednesday,  July  29th,  late  of 
the   night 

T  WENT  up  to  Paris.  I  thought  if  I  could  feel 
•*•  how  Paris  felt  to-day,  I  would  know  if  the 
menace  is  real.  Here  one  knows  nothing. 

There  is  sunshine  and  rain,  and  the  fields  are 
white  to  the  harvest,  the  heat  hangs  over  the 
long  white  roads,  and  the  shade  of  the  forests  is 
grateful. 

The  people  of  the  little  town  go  about  their 
ways;  their  sabots  clatter  on  the  cobbles,  and 
their  voices  have  part  with  the  shrilling  of  cigale 

9 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

and  the  call  of  the  swallows.  The  children  out  of 
school,  at  noon  and  at  sunset,  play  in  the  Place 
aux  Armes,  and  the  women  come  there  to  market 
in  the  mornings,  under  the  limes,  and  after  work 
the  men  lounge  there  against  the  moat  wall. 

But  since  Sunday  I  have  so  strange  a  feeling, 
a  sense  of  its  being  the  end  of  things.  The  end 
of — I  don't  know  what.  I  want  to  make  notes 
of  things,  not  of  the  great  things  that  are  happen- 
ing, but  of  the  little  things.  I  want  to  feel  especi- 
ally all  the  little  everyday  dear  accustomed 
things,  to  take  hold  of  the  moods  of  them,  and 
gather  up  their  memories,  to  be  put  away  and 
kept,  and  turned  back  to  always  afterwards. 

I  want  to  make  notes  of  the  sweetness  of  my 
room  to  wake  to,  all  the  garden  coming  in  through 
the  drawn  blinds. 

I  want  to  put  away  and  keep  my  memory  of 
the  fragrance  of  the  garden,  and  its  little  voices, 
bird  and  bee  and  grasshopper  and  cricket  and 
stirring  leaf.  I  want  to  remember  things  I  saw 
from  my  window — the  terrace  with  its  grey  stone 
mossy  parapet;  the  steps  between  the  pots  of 
heliotrope  and  roses;  the  parterres,  the  old 
vague  statues,  the  crouching  sphynxes — beauti- 
ful because  they  are  broken  and  deep  in 
roses — the  trimmed  yews,  the  paths  and  box 
borders  and  formal  beds  of  flowers;  the  wall  of 

10 


Wednesday,  July  29th 

trees  around;  the  glimpses  through  the  trees  of 
the  town's  stained,  blurred  roofs,  and  of  grain 
fields  and  the  forests. 

I  want  to  remember  the  little  clover  leaf  table 
for  my  breakfast  tray,  the  bowl  of  sweet-peas, 
the  taste  of  the  raspberries. 

I  want  to  remember  the  Long  Gallery,  the  cha- 
teau smell  in  it;  the  clear  green  stir  of  the  limes 
in  the  entrance  court  under  its  windows;  the 
stairs  that  I  kept  dreaming  about,  with  the  dark 
Spanish  pictures  hung  along  them,  and  the 
armour  on  their  turnings. 

I  want  to  remember  the  bird's  nest  in  the  lan- 
tern over  the  entrance  door,  and  the  begonias  in 
the  beds  along  the  wall;  the  big  dogs  dragging 
at  their  chains  to  come  and  meet  me,  the  huge 
tumbling  puppy,  the  gardener's  babies,  Therese 
and  Robert,  bringing  Therese  'a  new  rag  doll  to 
show  me. 

I  started,  motoring,  only  about  10  o'clock  for 
Paris. 

It  was  market  day  in  the  Place;  there  were 
the  rust-red  and  burnt-umber  awnings  and  the 
women's  blue  aprons  and  clattering  sabots. 

There  were  many  magpies  in  the  road.  "Une 
pie,  tant  pis;  deux  pies,  tant  mieux,"  and  one 
must  bow  nine  times  to  each  of  them. 

The  country  was  dim  and  blue  in  the  gauze 
ii 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

lights  of  the  morning.  The  road  was  empty  be- 
tween the  poplar  trees.  It  was  good  to  see  the 
peasants  at  work  in  the  fields,  and  the  life  of  the 
villages  going  its  way  in  the  morning  streets. 

I  tried  to  get  the  papers  in  Compiegne,  but 
they  were  not  yet  come. 

There  were  many  soldiers  about. 

It  was  the  road  through  Senlis  and  Chantilly. 

The  trainers  had  the  race-horses  out  at  exercise 
in  the  misty  forest  roads. 

I  thought,  "There  can't  be  war." 

Luzarches  and  Ecouen,  and  St.  Denis  and  then 
Paris. 

I  got  out  of  the  car  on  the  boulevards.  There 
were  many  people  out  and  I  went  with  the 
swing  of  the  crowd  up  and  down.  It  was 
good  to  be  in  the  swing  of  a  crowd.  People 
hurried  and  people  dallied;  people  stood  and 
looked  into  shop  windows;  people  sat  and  sipped 
things  on  cafe  terraces;  people  pushed  and 
elbowed;  people  stopped  and  stood  where  they 
were,  reading  the  noon  papers;  strangers  spoke 
to  one  another,  if  the  swing  of  the  crowd  threw 
them  for  an  instant  together;  everybody  looked 
at  one  another  with  a  queer  new  sudden  need  of 
each  the  other,  and  they  all  felt,  more  or  less, 
one  thing  together. 

After  a  while  I  went  to  my  own  home. 
12 


Wednesday,  July  29th 

I  thought  I  had  never  seen  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde more  beautiful,  oval  and  white,  or  crossed 
the  bridge  with  a  deeper  sense  of  going  home. 

My  own  little  Place  was  very  quiet,  all  the 
big  houses  closed;  nobody  left  but  the  sentinels 
before  the  Palace  and  the  concierges  in  their 
doorways  with  their  cats  and  canaries. 

Our  concierges  and  I  were  more  glad  even  than 
usual  to  see  one  another.  Old  Boudet  in  his 
habitual  shirt-sleeves,  feeling,  evidently,  particu- 
larly socialistic,  was  yet  quite  tolerant  of  me ;  and 
sweet,  slow,  fat,  very  respectable  mother  Boudet, 
whose  gentleness  always  seems  begging  one  to 
excuse  shirt-sleeves  and  politics,  was  so  ready  to 
cry  that  I  kissed  her. 

Our  rooms  were  sad,  things  moved  back  and 
covered  over,  blinds  closed.  I  did  not  stay  long 
in  those  rooms. 

I  did  not  try  to  see  any  one.  It  was  not 
people  I  had  wanted,  only  Paris.  I  started  back 
early. 

I  want  to  remember  all  the  things  of  the  way 
back  into  the  country;  every  thing  of  the  fields, 
red  warm  ploughed  earth  and  fresh-cut  grass  and 
tall  clover;  every  thing  of  the  forests,  lights  and 
mists  and  shadows,  depths  of  moss  and  fern ;  every 
thing  of  the  villages,  stone  stairways  and  hearth 
fires,  the  pot-au-feu,  cows  and  people's  living. 

13 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

At  Compiegne  I  stopped  in  the  Grand'  Place  to 
read  the  news  scrawled  in  chalk  on  the  blackboard 
before  the  Mairie. 

A  sense  of  things  that  were  happening  came  to 
me  less  from  the  words  on  the  bulletin  than  from 
the  faces  of  the  people  in  the  crowd  before  it. 


Thursday,  July  30* 

"C"  AELY  in  the  morning  a  friend  of  mine  tele- 
phoned from  her  people's  chateau  across  the 
two  forests,  to  tell  me  that  her  husband  was 
arranging  for  her  to  take  the  babies  to-morrow 
up  to  Paris. 

He  said  that  in  70  the  Germans  had  come  that 
way,  by  the  grand  old  historic  road,  down  upon 
Paris.  The  chateau  had  then  passed  through 
dreadful  times.  If  there  were  war  he  would  have 
to  go  out  on  the  first  day.  He  would  have  his 
babies  then  far  off  from  the  danger  he  did  not, 
of  course,  believe  in. 

She  told  me  all  he  said.  She  thought  it  was  a 
great  bother.  Would  we  come  over  that  after- 
noon to  tea? 

I  picked  sweet-peas  and  raspberries  down  by 
the  well,  and  wrote  a  lot  of  letters  in  my 
north-tower  room. 


Thursday,  July  30th 

That  her  husband  felt  like  that  about  it,  filled 
me  with  a  sense  of  disaster — like  the  thunder  and 
red  I  kept  dreaming  of. 

We  motored  over  after  lunch,  through  the  soft, 
vague,  intimate  country  that  has  no  especial 
beauty  and  that  is  so  beautiful. 

Some  one  called  to  us  from  the  children's  wing. 
It  was  "Miss,"  and  she  said,  "No  one  will  come 
to  the  door;  go  straight  in,  Madame  is  there.  We 
are  leaving,  now,  in  five  minutes. " 

The  children's  mother  stood  half-way  down  the 
long  white  gallery. 

She  looked  very  small  and  young. 

She  said,  "He  won't  let  us  wait  till  to-morrow. 
He  has  telephoned.  We  are  going  now,  in  five 
minutes. ' ' 

Down  the  long  white  length  of  the  gallery,  we 
saw  the  children's  grandmother  in  the  billiard- 
room,  sitting  against  the  big  south  window. 

She  had  the  little  baby  in  her  arms,  and  the  two 
bigger  ones  stood  close  against  her. 

I  went  to  her. 

She  said,  "You  see,  I  am  minding  the  babies." 

She  said  that  just  because  one  had  to  say 
something  and  not  cry. 

We  went  away  quickly. 

Wide  misty  fields  under  another  red  war  sunset. 
I  thought,  how  one  felt  war  in  the  sunset, 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

As  we  went,  dusk  came,  gathering,  deepening, 
very  soft  and  kind.  The  fields  and  sky  were 
darkly  blue.  There  was  a  clear  edge  of  the  world, 
between  the  fields  and  the  sky.  And  over  the 
edge  of  the  world  there  was  a  slim  little  new  white 
moon. 

There  was  a  small  clear  singing  of  field  birds  in 
the  dusk,  and  there  were  bats  abroad,  and  swal- 
lows. 


Friday,  July  3ist 

'TpHE  beggars  came  as  usual  to  the  chateau  for 
•*•  their  Friday  morning  sous.  There  were  the 
usual  dozen  of  them;  old  men,  and  women  with 
babies,  and  old  women,  and  Margotte,  the  girl  who 
was  innocente,  with  her  nodding  head  and  hands 
that  would  never  keep  still.  They  came  out  of 
their  holes  in  the  marble  quarries,  and  from  no- 
body knew  quite  where,  according  to  their  long 
custom.  All  that  was  just  as  usual.  But  they 
were  not  as  usual. 

They  were  angry  because  Venus  and  Olga,  the 

great  Danes  of  the  moat  bridge,  barked  at  them. 

Venus  and  Olga  always  barked  at  them,  but  the 

beggars  never  had  been  angry  before.     Before, 

16 


Friday,  July  31st 

they  had  been,  always,  apologetic  and  conciliatory. 

An  old  woman  with  wild  white  hair  screamed 
at  the  butler  who  came  with  the  sous,  and  a  young 
woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms  and  two  babies 
hiding  in  her  skirts,  shook  her  fist  at  the  chateau 
windows.  There  was  a  sound  of  growling,  snarl- 
ing voices,  more  ugly  than  the  dogs'  barking,  in 
the  court  of  the  lime  trees. 

I  went  out  to  talk  with  the  beggars.  I  was 
afraid  of  them,  ridiculously  and  terribly,  as  one  is 
afraid  of  things  in  dreams.  That  especially 
terrible  fear  which  belongs  to  dreams,  exagger- 
ated, absurd,  seemed  to  be  fallen,  suddenly,  some- 
how, upon  everything. 

I  was  afraid  of  the  wild  white  hair  of  the  old 
woman  in  the  shawl,  and  of  Margotte's  twitching, 
clutching,  crazy  hands. 

I  do  not  want  to  write  about  this  day.  I  will 
always  try  not  to  remember  it. 

After  dinner  we  walked  in  the  garden  and  along 
the  rampart  walls.  We  went  to  feed  the  rabbits. 
How  absurd  to  be  heartbroken  because  it  may 
be  the  last  time  that  we  ever  shall  feed  cabbage- 
leaves  to  the  rabbits ! 

Now,  writing  in  the  north-tower  room,  I  feel  a 
strange  commotion  in  the  village.  How  wide- 
awake the  village  is,  so  late!  There  are  footsteps 
going  up  and  down  the  streets,  up  and  down,  and 

17 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

voices,  under  the  ramparts.  The  sound  of  foot- 
steps and  voices  is  strange  in  the  night.  Why  are 
the  people  going  up  and  down  like  that?  Of 
what  are  they  talking?  There  is  the  sound  of 
a  drum. 

The  sound  of  the  drum  comes  across  the  moat, 
past  the  Dungeon  Tower,  through  the  lime  trees 
of  the  entrance  court,  along  the  dim  halls  and 
corridors. 

The  drumming  stops. 

A  man's  voice  takes  up  the  reading  out,  very 
loud,  of  something,  to  the  hush  that  has  fallen 
on  footsteps  and  voices. 


Saturday,   August    ist 

has  been  the  day  of  waiting.  Every- 
where,  every  one  waited. 
In  the  Place  aux  Armes  people  stood  and 
waited.  The  men  waited  to  be  told  what  to  do. 
The  women  waited,  each  one  of  them  staying 
close  to  her  man.  The  children  hung  on  to 
their  fathers'  hands. 

In  all  the  little  towns  along  the  road  to  Paris 
it  was  like  that. 

In  the  larger  towns  there  was  much  movement 
18 


Saturday,  August  1st 

of  soldiers  about  in  the  streets.  All  the  red  kepis 
were  covered  with  blue.  I  wondered  why. 

The  fields  were  empty.  The  work  of  the  fields 
was  left,  flung  down.  The  scythe  lay  in  the 
sweep  it  had  only  half  cut. 

From  Louvres  already  the  men  were  gone. 
Only  women  and  old  people  and  children  were 
left,  in  the  length  of  the  long  street. 

At  the  porte  de  La  Chapelle  we  and  a  hay-cart 
going  into  Paris,  and  a  small  poor  funeral  com- 
ing out  to  the  cemetery  of  St.  Ouen,  were  all 
blocked  together.  The  gendarmes  were  question- 
ing the  peasant  of  the  hay-cart,  who  stood  in  his 
blue  blouse  at  the  head  of  a  big  sleepy  white  horse, 
and  answered  sulkily.  One  of  the  croque-morts 
told  us  that  the  order  for  general  mobilization 
was  posted  up  on  the  walls  of  Paris.  I  stared  at 
his  shiny  top  hat  and  black  gloves  that  were  too 
long  in  the  fingers,  and  tried  to  realize  what  it 
meant. 

The  streets  of  our  quarter  are  empty,  and  more 
strange  than  the  streets  and  the  boulevards  we 
came  through,  where  crowds  were  swaying  up 
and  down. 

Madame  Boudet  and  I  were  afraid  to  go  across 
and  read  the  words  of  the  white  oblong  placard 
that  is  pasted  up  on  the  wall  of  the  Palace. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


Paris,  Sunday,  August  and 

T?IRST  day  of  the  mobilization,  the  state  of 
•*•  siege  is  declared  throughout  France. 

Already  the  many  gardens  of  this  old  quarter 
are  deep  in  the  colours  and  odours  and  melancholy 
of  autumn,  and  give  autumn's  fatefulness  and 
foreboding  to  all  the  streets  and  rooms.  I 
thought  when  I  waked  to  it,  has  this  sense  of 
autumn  always  meant  the  end  of  many  more 
things  than  summer  ? 

With  one's  coffee  to  read — 

First  day  of  the  mobilization,  the  state  of  war 
is  declared  throughout  France. 

How  silent  this  Paris  is,  this  special  part  of 
Paris,  of  houses  that  close  proud  heavy  doors 
upon  all  they  feel,  of  streets  withdrawn  from 
thronging  and  demonstration. 

In  my  room  it  is  like  waking  to  the  silence  that 
is  beyond  the  end  of  the  world. 

So  this  is  one  way  war  begins,  not  with  shouting 
and  singing,  but  with  a  great  silence. 


Tuesday,  August  4th 


Monday,  August  3rd 

HEY  go.  They  all  go.  There  is  nothing  I  can 
•••  say  of  it.  I  can  only  feel  it,  as  they  go. 

I,  I  am  a  stranger,  I  have  no  part  in  it.  I  have 
no  right  to  agony  and  pride. 

I  went  and  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  Cour  la  Keine, 
where  already  the  leaves  are  falling. 

One  of  my  friends  came  and  met  me  there,  and 
we  sat  on  the  bench  together,  where  the  yellow 
leaves  fell  slowly.  We  never  talked  at  all. 

Her  husband  had  gone  the  night  before. 

She  said,  "I  am  so  glad  that  it  is  now,  when  my 
boy  is  just  a  baby."  She  said,  "I  have  prayed, 
and  prayed,  all  these  days,  if  it  has  got  to  be,  let 
it  be  now,  when  my  son  is  just  a  baby. ' ' 


Tuesday,   August  4th 

THER  people  will  write  beautiful  things  of  it 
— it  is  so  beautiful. 
How  beautiful  it  is,  this  going  forth  of  all  that 
is  young  and  gay  and  fearless,  of  all  that  means 
our   ideal    and   our   faith,   without   singing   and 
shouting,  to  battle. 

There  are  no  grand  words,  they  only  go. 
21 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

And  none  of  the  women  cry,  till  afterwards. 

You  see  them  laughing  as  they  help  their  boys 
carry  the  bundles. 

And  you  see  them  coming  home  through  the 
streets  afterwards,  each  one  alone  and  proud, 
crying  quite  noiselessly. 

Sometimes  the  people  who  feel  things  most, 
remember  only  the  smallest  things. 

There  was  an  old  woman  with  a  push-cart  full 
of  pears,  this  morning,  in  the  rue  Boissy  d'Anglas, 
who  ran  and  ran  as  fast  as  she  could,  panting, 
out  of  breath,  to  give  her  pears,  all  of  them,  to 
the  blue  boys  of  an  infantry  regiment  passing 
with  their  blankets  and  knapsacks. 

I  remember  that,  and  that  it  was  a  beautiful 
blue-and-gold  day,  with  a  flaming,  thundering 
sunset. 


Wednesday,  August  5th 

TKEEP  thinking  back  over  those  last  days  of 
•*•  peace,  that  were  so  precious,  and  nobody  knew. 
The  Sunday  that  was  to  be  the  last,  what 
memories  has  it  given  the  women  to  treasure,  the 
men  to  carry  away  with  them?  Memories  of  such 
small  absurd  things  have  become  sacred,  or  become 

22 


Wednesday,  August  5th 

terrible.  The  men  may  loose  those  memories  in 
their  great  spaces  of  battle,  but  the  women  must 
stay  with  them  in  the  rooms. 

Against  the  great  background  of  these  days  it 
is  queer  what  small  absurd  things  stand  out.  The 
greatest  days  of  all  the  world — and  how  terribly 
worried  we  are  that  Louis  has  gone  off  without 
his  little  package  of  twenty-four  hours'  provision, 
the  bread  and  chocolate  and  little  flask.  It  was 
ready  for  him  and  on  the  table  in  the  hall,  and 
every  one  forgot  it;  and  he  was  gone,  and  there 
it  was,  a  ridiculous  thing  to  sob  over. 

Those  women  who  did  not  cry  at  the  station, 
what  absurd  things  they  sobbed  over,  afterwards, 
at  home — his  golf  sticks  in  the  corner,  his  untidy 
writing-table,  the  clothes,  all  sorts,  he  had  left 
flung  about  the  room.  How  many  of  them  will 
remember  always  that  second  pair  of  boots  he 
had  to  take  with  him,  that  simply  couldn't  be  got, 
that  had  to  be  hunted  over  Paris  for,  desperately, 
as  if  of  utmost  importance,  all  his  last  day? 
However  could  she  have  got  through  that  last  day 
if  it  had  not  been  that  she  must  keep  up  because  of 
the  boots? 

In  the  afternoon,  at  the  Kond  Point  of  the 
Champs  Elysees,  my  fiacre  was  held  up  for  the 
passing  of  a  regiment  on  its  way  to  some  station. 
A  woman  and  a  little  boy  were  marching  along 

23 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

beside  one  of  the  men,  going  with  him  just  as  far 
as  they  might  go.  The  woman  had  no  hat,  and  the 
sun  was  very  hot.  Her  hair  was  tumbled  across 
her  eyes.  The  little  boy  was  holding  tight  to  the 
edge  of  his  father's  long  blue  coat. 


Thursday,  August  6th 

little  Charlotte's  baby  was  born  to-day, 
the  day  after  its  father  went  out.  And  it 
is  dead.  A  boy — and  he  had  so  wanted  it  to  be 
a  boy. 

Friday,   August  yth 

Al  ^ O-DAY  I  went  with  a  friend  of  mine  to  Notre 
•*•       Dame  des  Victoires,  where  she  prayed. 

All  those  starry  lights,  and  all  that  dusk  of 
kneeling,  beseeching  people. 


Saturday,   August  8th 

TN  the  afternoon  went  with  Chantal  to  the  Gare 
•*•  d'Orsay,  then  to  the  Austerlitz,  and  the  Lyon, 
trying  to  find  a  way  for  her  and  the  babies  to  go 
home  to  the  Vaucluse. 

24 


Sunday,  August  9th 

People  are  camped  out  about  the  stations;  all 
the  streets  are  full  of  them,  waiting  to  get  places 
in  the  line  before  the  ticket  windows. 

Poulques  came  to  dine.  It  is  his  last  night. 
He  goes  out  to  morrow.  He  was  very  quiet.  I 
have  never  seen  him  quiet  like  that  before.  Last 
night,  down  in  the  country,  he  had  got  through 
with  all  the  good-byes — Claire,  and  his  home,  and 
the  little  son;  I  suppose  there  was  nothing  left 
for  him  to  feel. 

Old  Madame  Boudet  has  a  letter  from  her  son, 
who  went  on  Tuesday.  She  is  very  happy  be- 
cause he  says  his  next  letter  will  be  from  Berlin. 
She  is  a  little  anxious  because  he  speaks  no  Ger- 
man. Father  Boudet  forgets  that  he  is  socialist 
and  anti-militarist,  because  he  is  so  proud  that  his 
son  should  be  a  soldier  of  France.  His  shirt- 
sleeves are  no  longer  symbolic,  they  mean  just 
that,  for  thinking  of  the  hero,  he  has  no  time  to 
think  of  his  coat. 


Sunday,  August 

1\/f"IMI  'S  birthday :  cake  with  six  candles,  and  the 
little  girl  from  upstairs  come  with  her  Miss 
to  tea, 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Monday,   August    loth 

/T*  HERE  is  a  sort  of  dreadful  comfort  in  know- 
•*•       ing  that  their  going  off  is  over. 

They  are  gone. 

The  women  saw  them  off,  helped  them  hurry 
their  things  together — those  bundles,  boots, 
something  to  eat  in  the  train.  Every  one  had 
laughed. 

The  last  things  are  over — the  last  night,  when 
he  slept  so  well  and  she  watched;  the  last  sitting 
down  at  the  table  together;  the  last  standing 
together  in  the  room;  his  last  look  around  it,  and 
her  last  seeing  of  him  there;  the  going  out  at 
the  door. 

The  last  going  out  of  the  door  together.  There 
was  the  bundle  to  carry,  and  to  laugh  over. 
Everybody's  motor  had  been  taken,  everybody's 
chauffeur  was  gone  with  all  the  other  husbands 
and  sons.  Omnibuses  and  taxis  were  gone.  The 
metro  was  not  running,  nor  the  tram.  How  to  get 
to  the  station — such  confusion,  and  such  laughing 
over  it. 

The  station,  somehow.  And  the  crowd — such 
a  crowd.  And  all  the  crowd  was  just  one  man 
going  off,  and  one  woman  who  could  bear  it. 

There  had  been  just  one  bearing  of  it,  and  then 
it  was  over. 

26 


Monday,  August  10th 

How  silent  Paris  is ! 

It  is  one  of  those  hot  veiled  days,  when  every- 
thing is  tensely  strung,  high  pitched,  and  yet  no- 
thing seems  to  be  quite  real. 

The  leaves  are  falling  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens. 
I  remembered,  crossing  there,  that  this  is  the 
anniversary  day  of  a  fallen  kingdom. 

The  little  Dauphin  shuffled  his  feet  through  the 
fallen  leaves  as  he  went  to  the  burial  service  of 
kingdoms,  across  the  garden,  in  the  old  riding 
academy. 

I  imagine  his  loving  the  sound  of  the  dead 
leaves  about  his  feet,  as  I  used  to  love  it  when  I 
was  a  child. 

The  sense  of  autumn  and  the  end  of  things  is 
heavy  upon  Paris. 

All  the  news  is  good.  It  is  just  the  sadness  of 
autumn — 

Les  sanglots  longs 
des  violons 
de  1'automne. 

I  went  to  meet  Chantal  in  the  Cour  la  Reine. 

We  sat  on  the  top  of  the  river  wall.  No  boats 
passed  along  the  river,  and  few  people  passed 
under  the  slowly  falling  leaves. 

We  were  very  alone  with  Paris. 

An  old  shabby  man  came  by,  reading  an  evening 
paper  as  he  walked  slowly.  We  asked  him  what 

27 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

the  news  was.  He  stopped  and  stood  by  the  wall 
with  us  and  read  good  news  to  us.  He  said,  "I 
fought  through  70.  It  was  just  so  in  70." 

Chantal  said  to  me,  "How  dreadful  to  be  old! 
The  night  of  the  first  big  victory,  let's  get  some- 
body to  take  us  out  with  the  crowd  on  the  boule- 
vards." 


Tuesday,   August   nth 

ELIANE  let  me  come  to-day,  for  the  first  time 
since  her  boy  went,  on  the  Tuesday.  She 
has  changed  so,  one  can  scarcely  believe  it,  in 
just  these  few  days.  She  does  not  look  young  any 
more.  How  badly  he  would  feel;  he  always 
loved  his  pretty  little  mother  to  look  young.  He 
loved  it  when  people  took  her  for  his  sister,  and 
how  delighted  he  was  that  time  she  went  to  see 
him  when  he  was  in  barracks,  and  the  captain 
was  shocked.  She  is  no  more  young  and  pretty 
and  she  does  not  care. 

Her  eyes  looked  as  if  they  never  could  cry 
again.  She  told  me  that  the  last  night  she  had 
listened  outside  his  door,  and  when  she  was  quite 
sure  he  was  asleep,  she  crept  in,  and  groped  for  a 
chair  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  and  sat  there,  not 
28 


Arras,  August  16th 

seeing  him,  just  knowing  him  near,  all  night 
long  while  he  slept.  She  went  quietly  out  of  the 
room  before  he  waked,  when  the  light  began  to 
show  the  oblong  of  the  windows — she  did  not 
want  him  to  know  that  she  had  watched.  She 
said  he  slept  the  whole  night  long,  never  stirring, 
and  that  she  had  known  she  must  not  cry,  for  fear 
of  waking  him.  She  thought  something  had  hap- 
pened in  that  night  to  her  throat  and  to  her  eyes, 
BO  that  she  could  never  have  tears  any  more. 


Arras,   August   i6th 

TT  was  a  heavy  grey  day,  very  still.  People  were 
^  telling  one  another  that  all  the  news  was 
good.  The  first  German  flag  taken  had  been 
brought  to  Paris:  one  could  go  that  day  to  the 
Ministry  of  War  to  see  it.  I  wished  I  could  have 
waited  in  Paris  over  a  day  to  go  to  see  it.  I 
thought,  it  will  be  the  first  thing  I  do,  to  go  to 
see  it,  when  I  come  back  next  week. 

It  was  interesting  to  think  that  we  went  around 
by  Arras  because  British  troops  were  detraining 
at  Amiens. 

It  was  all  of  it  splendid,  and  one  was  proud 
and  eager. 

29 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

But  the  fields  of  France  frightened  me.  They 
looked  stricken.  They  lay  under  the  soft,  grey, 
close-pressing  hours,  so  strangely  empty.  Every- 
where the  fields  lay  empty.  The  fields  were 
ripe  with  harvest.  The  wheat  was  burnt  amber, 
and  fallen  by  its  own  heaviness.  The  wide 
swathes  lay  low  along  the  ground,  like  the  ground- 
swell  of  tired  seas.  The  harvest  was  left,  aban- 
doned. Sometimes  one  saw  troops  moving  along 
the  white  roads. 

The  towns  had  an  odd  stir  of  troops  in  the 
streets. 

At  Arras,  coming  into  the  town,  we  saw  that 
droves  of  cattle  had  been  herded  into  a  big 
enclosure,  and  that  soldiers  were  guarding  them. 
We  saw  tents  pitched  in  the  fields.  It  was  Sun- 
day. The  women  of  Arras  were  out  in  their 
Sunday  dresses.  They  seemed  all  to  have  come 
down  to  the  railroad  to  watch  the  trains  pass 
and  to  have  brought  all  the  children.  There 
were  only  very  old  or  very  young  men, 
except  the  soldiers.  There  were  many 
soldiers.  All  their  kepis  were  covered  with 
blue.  They  were  come  with  the  others  to  watch 
the  trains  pass. 

In  the  deep  cut  beyond  the  station  it  seemed 
as  if  the  whole  town  were  come  out  to  sit  on  the 
banks  and  just  look. 

3° 


London,  September 

They  were  like  children,  I  thought,  not 
understanding,  helpless,  waiting  for  something 
that  was  going  to  happen. 


London,   September 

^  I^HE  night  Ian  went  out  was  pretty  bad. 
•*•  There  were  several  other  officers  with 
him,  and  their  wives  and  mothers  and  sisters  and 
children  all  came  to  see  them  off. 

Every  one  knew  quite  well  what  it  meant,  and 
every  one  pretended  not  to  know. 

I  had  come  to  feel,  like  the  rest  of  them,  that 
one  has  simply  got  to  pretend. 

We  all  pretended  as  hard  as  we  could  that  it 
was  splendid. 

There  was  a  woman  on  the  platform  who  must 
have  been  crazy,  I  think. 

She  did  not  belong  to  any  one  going  out.  She 
was  one  of  those  dreadful  things  you  see  in  Lon- 
don, with  a  big  hat  heaped  with  feathers,  and 
draggled  tails  of  hair.  I  think  she  had  a  red  dress. 

She  came  up  to  us  under  the  windows  of  the 
train,  and  stood  nodding  her  dreadful  feathers 
and  waving  her  dreadful  hands  and  calling  things 
out. 

She  called  out,  "Oh,  it's  all  very  fine  now,  you 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

laugh  now — but  you  won't  laugh  long.  You 
won't  laugh  out  there.  And  who  of  you'll  come 
back  and  laugh,  my  pretty  boys,  my  gay  boys?" 

Nobody  dared  take  notice  of  her.  If  any  one 
of  us  had  taken  notice  of  her,  nobody  could 
have  borne  it.  There  seemed  to  be  no  guard 
about  to  stop  her,  and  not  one  of  us  dared  admit 
that  she  was  there. 

"My  pretty  boys,  my  gay  boys,"  she  kept 
calling  out,  "you  laugh  now,  my  poor  boys,  but 
you  won't  laugh  long." 

There  were  some  little  Frenchmen,  cooks,  I 
think,  or  waiters,  from  some  smart  hotel,  going 
to  join  the  colours.  They  were  in  a  third-class 
carriage  next  the  carriage  of  the  British  officers. 

They  heard  the  woman  calling  out  like  that. 
They  were  little  pasty-faced  cooks  or  waiters. 

But  they  began  to  sing.  They  began  to  sing 
the  Marseillaise  to  drown  the  woman's  voice  out. 

They  did  it  just  for  us,  our  men  going  out,  there 
on  the  platform. 

Our  men  began  to  whistle  it  and  hum  it  and 
stamp  it.  And  we  tried  to. 

The  crazy  woman  called  out  those  terrible 
things,  that  were  so  true. 

And  our  men  and  the  little  Frenchmen  sang 
and  whistled  and  stamped.  And  so  did  we. 

And  the  train  went  out  like  that. 
32 


Paris,  end  of  September 


Paris,   end  of  September 

THAVE  come  home  for  six  days.  "I  am  here/7 
•*•  I  keep  saying  to  myself,  "I  am  here,  at 
home, ' '  as  if  I  could  not  believe  it. 

And  those  homeless  people,  that  they  begged 
for  at  all  the  stations  where  the  train  stopped 
on  our  way,  those  driven,  herded  people,  stupid 
from  horror  they  have  passed  through,  helpless, 
in  my  home  I  keep  imagining  them.  Where  the 
train  stopped  in  the  dark  at  half-lit  stations, 
people  of  the  Red  Cross  came  asking  help,  "Pour 
nos  blesses,  pour  nos  refugies." 

Somehow,  in  my  little  rooms,  it  is  the  refugees 
I  see  the  more  plainly.  There  is  the  young 
woman  with  the  wheelbarrow,  and  the  old 
woman,  the  grandmother,  with  the  baby,  the 
young  man  carrying  the  old  man  on  his  shoulders, 
the  little  brother  and  sister  with  the  bundle.  I 
see  them  toiling  down  the  white  road,  turning 
back  wild  looks  toward  the  smoke  of  their  home. 
They  had  to  leave  the  cow,  but  the  old  dog  fol- 
lowed them.  I  see  them  in  some  strange  place. 
They  can  go  no  farther.  They  do  not  care  where 
they  are,  or  what  happens  to  them.  They  have 
looked  upon  the  end  of  all  that  they  had  ever 
known. 

33 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Once,  when  the  train  stopped  at  a  very  small 
station,  where  one  could  smell  the  fields  all  close 
about  and  sweet,  there  was  a  woman's  voice 
pleading;  one  heard  her,  as  she  came  from  door 
to  door,  along  the  train,  in  the  dark,  "For  our 
homeless;  we  have  thousands  and  thousands  of 
homeless "  Her  voice  trailed  on  in  the  dark. 

I  was  coming  home.  Until  the  boat  lay  against 
the  quay  I  had  not  let  myself  believe  that  I  was 
coming  home.  It  was  after  sunset.  The  heaped- 
up  town  at  the  edge  of  the  sea,  with  its  old  roofs 
and  chimneys,  was  black,  in  a  livid,  cold,  desolate 
sky,  that  made  one  think  of  the  dead.  The  fields 
of  France  were  dark  as  we  came  through  them. 
The  towns  had  few  lights,  one  felt  them  to  be  in 
grief,  and  lonely.  In  each  town  there  was  the 
same  pleading  at  the  windows  of  the  train,  "Pour 
nos  blesses,  pour  nos  refugies."  We  came  in  the 
small  hours  to  Paris. 

The  broken-down  fiacre  dragged  through 
scarcely  lit  streets  that  were  all  empty,  and  across 
the  great  Place,  where  nothing  stirred,  and  over 
the  bridge  of  the  river,  that  was  as  lonely  as  a 
river  of  the  wilderness.  And  then  there  was  my 
home,  where  I  must  dream,  all  the  nights,  of 
homeless  people,  thousands  and  thousands  of 
homeless  people. 


34 


Paris,  just  before  Christmas 


London,    November 

TGO  to  the  little  Soho  church  of  Our  Lady  of 
•*•  France,  to  just  stay  there,  not  praying  or 
anything. 

I  go  just  to  be  with  a  people  who  are  far 
from  their  country  in  her  great  need. 

Most  of  them  are  very  humble  people.  There 
is  a  pmell  of  poverty  always  in  the  little  dark 
church.  They  are  people  to  whom  "home" 
can  mean  only  some  small  poor  place  and  things, 
a  thatched  cabin,  a  vineyard,  a  mansarde  over  a 
cobbled  street. 

They  kneel  in  the  little  dark  church  and  sing — 


Sauvez,  sauvez  la  France 
Au  nom  du  Sacre  Coeur — 

while  alien  feet  tread  hearts  down  into  the  stains 
and  bruises  of  the  roads  between  shattered  poplar 
trees  and  thatched  roofs  burning. 


Paris,  just  before  Christmas 

TTRY   not   to   write.     The   only   things   worth 
•*•     saying  are  the  things  I  do  not  know  how  to 
say. 
Every  morning  people  take  up  the  day  like  a 

35 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

burden.  They  carry  its  weight  of  dread  along  the 
hours,  down  the  length  of  them  to  the  end. 
Night  comes  at  last,  and  they  can  lay  the  burden 
down,  perhaps,  for  a  little. 

When  it  is  over  they  will  look  back  and  know 
how  beautiful  this  winter  was,  and  what  high 
places  they  had  sight  of  from  the  strange  far 
journeyings  of  the  days. 

When  it  is  over  they  will  know  that  it  was  good 
to  work  so  hard,  to  give  all,  to  be  tired  when  night 
came. 


PART  II 
Small  Town  Far  Off 


Small  Town  Far  Off 

Monday,   August  2nd,    1915 

WE  thought  we  had  to  get  away.  But  there  is 
no  getting  away.  One  feels  it  almost  more 
in  the  country  and  in  the  little  towns  than  in 
Paris,  where  life,  somehow  or  other,  keeps  on. 

The  country  stands  so  empty. 

The  men  are  gone.  They  are  gone  from  the 
cornfields  and  vineyards  and  pastures.  They  are 
gone  from  thatched  roofs  and  tiled  roofs.  From 
wide  white  poplar-bordered  roads,  and  steep  cob- 
bled streets,  and  hill  paths  that  are  like  the  beds 
of  mountain  torrents,  from  the  wide  way  of  the 
river,  and  from  all  the  little  ways  of  the  streams. 

The  women  are  left,  and  the  old  people,  and  the 
children.  The  oxen  are  left.  The  war  has  taken 
the  horses  and  the  mules. 

The  great  tawny  oxen  are  beautiful,  dragging 
the  plough  through  the  red  fields,  or  the  load  of 
brushwood  or  green  rushes  along  the  Koman  road. 

39 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  women  trudge  beside  the  oxen. 

The  old  people  had  thought  that  they  were 
come  to  the  time  of  resting,  at  the  long  end  of  it. 
They  had  thought  to  rest,  at  last,  in  their  door- 
ways. But  here  they  are,  out  in  the  fields  of 
their  sons  and  their  sons'  sons,  at  work,  only 
vaguely  understanding  why. 

The  Town 

The  town  is  the  colour  of  honey  and  burnt 
bread,  its  walls  and  gates  and  roofs,  its  castle 
and  tour  sarazine  and  the  tall  tower  of  the  cathe- 
dral. 

The  tower,  a  tall  campanile,  makes  one  think  of 
Italy,  as  do  the  open  stone  loggie,  and  garlands 
and  trellises  of  vines. 

Sometimes  I  think  the  town  speaks  to  me  in 
Italian.  I  try  to  understand,  and  then  I  know 
that  it  is  not  Italian,  nor  yet  quite  Latin,  but  the 
grand  old  tongue  of  the  illumined  pages  of  its 
princes'  Mass  books.  And  then  again  it  speaks 
to  me  in  the  patois  its  shepherd  saints  spoke. 

The  Saint 

The  vines  and  fields  come  close  about  the  town 
that  for  so  long  has  counted  its  years  by  vintages ; 
the  good  year  of  the  purple  grapes,  the  poor  year 
of  the  white  grapes. 

40 


Monday,  August  2nd,  1915 

The  town  has  had  its  part  in  many  wars,  but 
that  was  long  ago. 

It  has  a  patron  saint,  a  shepherd  boy,  who 
saved  it  in  three  wars,  miraculously.  But  it 
does  not  ask  him  for  help  in  this  war.  He  is  too 
intimate  and  near.  The  town  is  too  used  to 
asking  him  that  the  spring  rains  may  not  wash 
the  vines,  that  a  frost  may  not  come  to  hurt  them, 
that  a  malady  may  not  take  the  grapes. 

The  mountains  shadow  the  town,  with  shadows 
less  blue  than  they  themselves  are,  and  scarcely 
more  intangible  than  they  are,  as  one  looks  up  to 
them. 

The  river  passes  quietly  below  the  town,  slowly 
along  the  wide,  still  valley. 

The  River 

I  know  why  the  river  goes  so  slowly,  lingering  as 
much  as  ever  she  can,  and  a  little  sadly. 

It  is  because  just  here  she  leaves  behind  her 
youth  and  wildness  of  great  mountains,  her  mood 
of  snows  and  rocks,  cascade  and  woods  and  high 
rough  pastures,  cow-bells  and  mountain-horn. 
Going  down  into  the  classic  countries,  infinitely 
old,  those  deep,  rich  countries,  she  passes  here, 
between  the  high  clear  lift  and  lilt  and  thrill  of 
mountain  music  and  the  cadenced  melody  of 
Provence. 

41 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  old  Estampe 

There  is  an  old  print  in  the  library  of  the 
castle,  that  shows  the  town,  her  hill  become  a 
mighty  mountain,  the  river  a  terrific  flood,  the 
castle  guns  emitting  huge  neat  clouds  of  smoke 
upon  the  army  of  Savoy.  You  see  the  army  of 
Savoy,  in  plumes  and  velvet  cloaks,  withdrawing 
upon  prancing  steeds,  and  the  lords  of  the  town 
issuing  forth  from  the  Koman  gate  with  bugles 
and  banners. 

They  were  gorgeous,  gallant  little  wars  that 
the  sons  of  the  town  rode  out  to  in  those  days. 


The  Depot  d'Eclopes 


THE  depot  d'eclopes  is  just  beyond  the  town,  on 
the  Roman  road.  The  building  was  once 
the  Convent  of  the  Poor  Claires.  When  the 
Sisters  were  sent  away  it  was  used  as  Communal 
Schools.  There  is  a  great  plane  tree  outside  the 
door  in  the  yellow  wall,  and  a  bench  in  the  shade. 
There  is  room  for  seven  eclopes  to  sit  crowded 
together  on  the  bench.  They  bring  out  some 
chairs  also. 

All  day  long,  and  every  day,  as  many  of  the 
42 


The  Depot  d'Eclopes 

eclopes  as  can  get  about,  and  do  not  mind  that 
the  road  see  them,  and  can  find  space  in  the  shade 
of  the  plane  tree,  sit  there,  and  look  up  and  down 
the  sunshine  and  the  dust. 

Some  of  them  have  one  leg,  and  some  of  them 
have  one  arm.  There  is  one  of  them  who  is 
packed  into  a  short  box  on  wheels.  He  sits  up 
straight  in  the  box,  and  he  can  run  it  about  with 
his  hands  on  the  wheels.  There  is  another  in 
such  a  little  cart,  but  that  one  has  to  lie  on  his 
back,  and  cannot  manage  the  wheels  himself. 
There  is  one  who  lies  on  a  long  stretcher,  that  they 
fix  on  two  hurdles.  There  are  two  who  are  blind. 
The  two  blind  men  sit,  and  stare  and  stare. 

Looking  to  the  right,  from  the  depot  d 'eclopes, 
you  see  the  Koman  gate  of  the  town  and  remains 
of  the  ancient  walls,  and  the  old  poor  golden  roof, 
heaped  up  about  the  square  golden  tower  of  the 
cathedral.  The  many  ages  have  been  so  golden 
and  slow  upon  the  town  that  their  sunshine  has 
soaked  into  it.  It  is  saturated  with  the  sunshine 
of  the  ages  and  become  quite  golden.  You 
imagine  it  in  dark  winter  weather  glowing  with 
a  gold  of  its  own.  To  the  left,  from  the  gate  of  the 
depot  d 'eclopes,  the  road  leads  between  poplars 
and  vineyards  and  cornfields  to  the  mountains. 
The  mountains  stand  very  still,  one  against  the 
other,  one  behind  the  other.  They  also  are  gol- 
43 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

den,  having  retained  ages  and  ages  of  sunshine. 
They  stand  splendid,  cut  out  of  gold  roughly, 
shadowed  with  purple  and  blue. 

I  often  go  and  stay  with  the  eclopes  at  the  gate, 
they  like  to  have  anybody  come.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  I  dared  go  in  at  the  gate. 

Inside  the  gate  there  is  a  courtyard  that  was 
once  the  nuns'  garden,  with  their  well  in  the 
middle  of  it  and  their  fruit  trees  trained  along  the 
walls.  And  there,  there  move  about  all  day,  or 
keep  to  the  shadow,  of  first  the  east  wall,  then  the 
west,  those  of  the  eclopes  whom  the  road  must  not 


see. 


Some  of  them  look  up  at  you  when  you  come  in. 
But  most  of  them  turn  away  from  you. 

The  two  blind  men  at  the  gate  who  stare  and 
stare,  they  cannot  see  the  golden  town  or  the 
golden  mountains.  They  cannot  see  the  com- 
passion and  the  kindness  that  there  is  for  them  in 
the  faces  of  all  those  who  look  upon  them. 

But  these  men  in  the  courtyard,  however  will 
they  learn  to  bear,  down  all  their  lives,  the  looks 
that  there  will  be  for  them  in  the  most  kind,  com- 
passionate faces  ? 

II 

There  are  not  ever  enough  chairs  under  the 
plane  tree.     There  are  more  eclopes  than  there 
44 


The  Depot  d'  Eclopgs 

are  chairs.  How  they  laugh!  They  think  it 
very  droll  to  see  a  man  who  has  only  his  left  leg 
and  a  man  who  has  only  his  right  leg  sharing  a 
chair. 

The  men  who  have  no  legs  say  that  that  is  not 
nearly  so  bad  as  having  no  arms.  They  say  that 
the  men  with  no  arms  are  ashamed  to  be  seen, 
like  the  men  wounded  in  the  face.  They  say 
that  the  men  with  no  arms  will  never  come  out 
even  to  the  gate. 

Ill 

They  never  will  let  you  stand.  It  is  a  dreadful 
thing  to  do,  to  take  one  of  their  chairs.  But  they 
like  to  talk  to  a  stranger. 

All  of  them,  except  the  man  whose  spine  has 
been  hurt,  love  to  talk. 

The  man  whose  spine  has  been  hurt  lies  all  day, 
the  days  he  can  be  brought  out,  on  a  stretcher, 
never  stirring.  He  never  speaks  except  to  say 
one  thing.  He  is  very  young.  He  looks  as  if 
he  were  made  of  wax. 

He  keeps  saying,  "How  long  the  days  are  at 
this  season!" 

He  will  ask,  over  and  over  again,  "What  time 
is  it?"  and  say,  "Only  eleven  o'clock?"  Or, 
"Only  three  o'clock?" 

And  then  always,  "How  long  the  days  are  at 
this  season ! ' ' 

45 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

IV 

They  are  taking  out  for  a  walk  those  of  the 
eclopes  who  are  fit  for  it.  There  must  be  nearly 
a  hundred  of  them.  In  every  possible  sort  of 
patched,  discoloured  uniform,  here  they  come 
hopping  and  hobbling  along.  They  have  more 
crutches  and  canes  than  feet  among  the  lot  of 
them. 

One  of  the  men  who  has  no  legs  goes  so  fast 
on  his  wooden  stump  and  his  crutches  that 
everybody  stops  to  look,  and  all  the  eclopes 
laugh,  and  the  people  stopping  to  look,  laugh, 
and  he  laughs  more  than  any  of  them. 

If  things  are  tragic  enough,  they  are  funny.  I 
have  come  to  know  that,  with  the  eclopes  at  the 
gate.  And  inside  the  gate,  with  those  of  the 
eclopes  who  keep  back  against  the  walls,^I  have 
come  to  know  that  the  only  safety  of  life  ts  death. 

The  Cathedral 

I 

npHE  Place  de  la  Cathedrale  is  full  of  hot  red 
•*•  sunset,  taken  and  held  there,  like  wine  in 
the  chalice  of  old  golden  walls.  The  old  golden 
walls  of  the  houses  that  once  were  palaces  lift 
up  the  shape  of  a  cup  to  the  wine  of  the  sunset,  a 
vessel  of  silence  and  slow  time. 

46 


The  Cathedral 

Now  every  night  at  sunset  the  bells  of  the 
Cathedral  are  ringing,  and  people  are  coming  into 
the  Place  from  the  rue  St.  Real  and  the  rue 
Croix  d'Or  and  the  tunnel  street,  under  the  first 
stories  of  the  Palais  du  Marechal,  that  is  called  the 
rue  Petite  Lanterne. 

They  are  coming  to  the  Cathedral  for  the 
prayers  and  canticles  for  France. 

There  are  women  and  old  people  and  children 
and  soldiers,  fine  straight  young  chasseurs  alpins 
from  the  garrison,  like  chamois  hunters,  with 
beret  and  mountain-horn,  and  wounded  soldiers 
from  the  hospitals,  and  from  the  depot  d'eclopes, 
with  crutches  and  canes  and  white  bandages. 

The  swallows  are  flying  low  back  and  forth 
across  the  cobbles  of  the  Place  and  crying. 

Behind  the  tower  of  the  Cathedral,  the  great 
purple  mass  of  the  mountains  stands  out  against 
the  sunset.  The  smell  of  the  mountains,  of  vine- 
yards and  cows  and  cool  waters,  comes  down  to 
the  smells  of  the  town's  living  in  the  Place. 

II 

Inside  the  church  there  are  no  lights,  except  of 
so  much  of  sunset  as  comes  in  under  the  low 
arches,  and  of  the  red  lamp,  and  of  the  candles, 
burning  for  Our  Lady  of  Victories,  and  for  the 
Hew  Saint  Jeanne  d'Arc.  Among  the  dusky 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

figures,  very  still,  in  the  church,  you  see  white 
things.  Sometimes  it  is  the  white  cap  of  an  old 
crone  and  sometimes  it  is  a  white  bandage. 

Ill 

The  church  smells  like  a  hospital.  There  is  no 
more  the  smell  of  incense  in  the  church,  that 
used  to  linger  there  from  office  to  office  through 
the  years.  You  wonder  if  really  ever  the  church 
smelled  of  incense  and  wax  candles.  The  smell 
of  hospital  has  so  come  to  belong  there. 


H 


Americans 

E  did  not  seem  so  very  ill.    He  had  not  that 
look  of  being  made  of  wax.    And  he  talked 
all  the  time.    Most  of  them  die  so  silently. 

He  lay  in  the  bright  ward  and  talked  all  of  the 

time. 

He  had  enlisted  in  the  Foreign  Legion  and 
fought  since  the  beginning,  and  was  wounded 
last  week  in  the  Argonne. 

He  wanted  me  to  sit  beside  him  and  listen, 
hated  the  things  he  said. 

He  said  he  was  a  fool,  they  all  were  fools,  and 
they  aU  knew  it  now.     He  said  there  was  no 
48 


Americans 

glory.  They  had  thought  that  war  was  glorious. 
And  it  was  hideous;  sardine  tins  and  broken 
bottles,  mud  or  dust,  never  a  green  thing  left  to 
live.  There  was  no  enemy.  Just  guns.  When  a 
man  fell,  nobody  had  hit  him,  only  a  gun.  If  he 
was  dead,  lucky  for  him.  When  they  were 
wounded  they  made  noises  like  animals.  It  killed 
you  to  pick  them  up.  He  said  they  "went  sorter 
every  which  way'7  in  your  hands.  If  they  fell 
between  the  trenches  you  couldn't  get  to  them. 
It  seemed  as  if  they'd  never  die.  Sometimes  they 
made  noises  like  wolves  and  sometimes  like  cats. 
That  was  the  worst,  the  noises  like  cats.  You 
never  knew  if  it  weren't  cruel  to  throw  them 
bread.  If  you  threw  them  bread,  they  lived  and 
lived.  The  trenches  were  full  of  rats.  The  rats 
came  and  ate  your  boots  and  straps  and  things 
while  you  slept.  The  smells  were  "something 
fierce. "  "  Gee,  what  fools  we  were, ' '  he  said. 

He  picked  at  the  bedclothes  and  grinned  at  me 
and  said,  "Say,  kid,  ain't  you  homesick  for  back 
over  across  the  Duck  Pond?" 

I  said,  "Oh,  no,  no." 

I  looked  out  of  the  window  to  the  sky  of  France 
that  never  has  failed  me  of  dreams,  and  I  said, 
"No,  no,  no." 

Oh,  why  did  I?  Why  didn't  I  pretend  for 
him  that  I  was  homesick  too  ? 

49 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

An  Altar 

T^BOM  the  narrow  deep  old  street  you  turn 
•*•  in  under  an  arch  to  a  vaulted  passage  that 
is  always  dark  and  cold.  It  looks  into  a  court 
that  once  was  very  proud.  Now  a  wholesale 
wine  merchant  has  heaped  his  tuns  one  upon 
another  in  one  corner,  and  in  another  corner  a 
carpenter  has  his  saws  and  benches  and  great 
logs  of  mountain  oak  and  pine.  There  are  the 
smells  of  wine  and  fresh-cut  wood  together  with 
the  smell  of  stones  and  ages  in  the  court. 

The  houses  about  the  court  still  keep  something 
of  their  " grand  air."  They  are  of  all  the  colours 
that  time  in  the  south  gives  to  stones,  saffron 
and  amber  and  gold,  as  if  the  stone  were  soft 
for  the  sunshine  to  sink  into. 

On  the  left  of  the  court  there  is  a  wide  high 
door  under  an  escutcheon. 

The  sound  of  the  bronze  knocker  is  very  stately. 

The  wine  merchant  has  a  blackbird  that 
whistles  all  day  in  its  osier  cage,  and  the  children 
of  the  carpenter  are  always  laughing  and  calling, 
as  they  play  with  the  fresh  curled  wood  shavings. 

But  everybody  seems  to  stop  and  listen  when 
you  lift  the  bronze  knocker. 

A  lame  man-servant  comes  to  open  the  door. 
He  fought  through  70  with  his  master  and  was 
50 


An  Altar 

wounded  at  Sedan,  where  his  master  was  killed. 

There  is  a  wide  stone  stairway,  with  a  wrought- 
iron  railing,  and  with  walls  discoloured  where 
the  tapestries  have  been  taken  away. 

The  tapestries  are  gone  also  from  the  corridor, 
and  from  the  room  to  which  the  man-servant 
opens  the  door. 

The  old  portraits  are  left  in  the  walls  of  that 
room,  and  the  exquisite  wood-carving  of  the 
time  of  the  Sun  King,  but  the  three  or  four 
chairs  and  the  table  on  the  right  by  the  great 
carved  hearth,  are  such  as  one  would  find  at  the 
Bazar  of  the  Nouvelles  Galeries. 

The  room  is  empty,  except  for  these  chairs 
and  the  table,  and  the  little  altar. 

The  long  side  of  the  room,  opposite  the  door, 
has  four  tall  windows  that  look  across  a  garden, 
with  untrimmed  yew-trees  and  box  edges,  over 
green  paths,  tangles  of  grass  and  flowers,  to  what 
used  to  be  conventual  buildings  and  the  nuns* 
orchard. 

The  little  altar  is  at  the  end  of  the  room  on 
the  left  as  you  come  in,  facing  the  windows. 

There  is  a  statue  of  Notre  Dame  des  Victoires 
and  a  statue  of  Saint  Jeanne  d'Arc,  and  there 
is  the  Cross  between  them.  There  are  two 
seven-branched  old  bronze  candlesticks.  The 
altar  is  spread  with  ' '  a  fine  white  cloth, ' ' 

51 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

On  the  floor  before  it  is  laid  something  covered 
with  the  flag  of  the  Kepublic. 

I  know  what  it  is  that  the  flag  covers. 

She  had  showed  it  to  me. 

One  day,  I  don't  know  why,  she  took  me 
there  and  lifted  the  flag,  and  showed  me  a  heap 
of  toys. 

She  said,  "They  were  babies  when  they  died." 
"They  died;"  she  said,  "the  two  of  them  in  one 
week  together,  of  a  fever.  It  was  in  the  year 
that  we  called,  till  now,  the  'Terrible  Year.'  It 
was  in  the  month  of  the  battle  in  which  their 
father  was  killed."  She  said,  "Look  at  the 
wooden  soldiers  of  my  babies,  the  Hussars  and 
the  Imperial  Guards.  How  long  ago!  And  this 
was  a  little  model  of  the  cannon  of  those  days. 
Look  at  the  bigger  one's  musket  and  the  little 
one's  trumpet  and  drum.  And  the  little  uniforms 
of  the  Empire  I  had  made  for  them,  and  they 
were  so  proud  of — My  sons,  to  whom  it 
was  not  given  to  die  for  France." 

Hospital 

long  side  of  the  hospital  looks  from  its 
rows    of   windows   to   vineyards    and   the 
mountains.      The    smell    of    burning    brushwood 
comes  in,  to  the  smell  of  the  hospital, 
52 


Hospital 

Through  all  the  vineyards  these  days  they  are 
burning  the  refuse  of  the  vines.  The  smoke 
stays  among  the  vines,  lingering  heavily.  The 
purple  smoke  and  the  red  and  purple  wine  colours 
of  the  vines,  and  the  purple  mists  of  the  distances, 
gathered  away  into  the  purple  shadows  of  the 
mountains,  make  one  think  at  twilight  of  the 
music  of  a  violin,  or  of  a  flute. 

The  Number  18  is  very  bad.  He  does  not 
know  any  one  any  more.  He  lies  against  a  heap 
of  cushions,  his  knees  drawn  up  almost  to  his 
chin,  his  eyes  wide  open  all  the  time,  his  hands 
picking  at  the  covers. 

The  boy  in  the  next  bed  keeps  saying,  "If  my 
mother  were  here,  she  would  know  what  to  do. 
If  my  mother  were  here,  she  would  save  him." 

There  is  a  boy  who  wants  some  grapes.  His 
whole  body  is  shot  to  pieces.  They  do  not  dare 
give  him  even  a  sip  of  water.  He  keeps  begging 
and  begging  for  grapes.  Very  shortly  the  hillside 
under  the  windows  will  be  heavy  and  purple 
with  grapes. 

There  is  a  boy  who  talks  about  riding  over 
everything.  He  keeps  saying,  "We  rode  right 
over  them,  we  rode  right  over  them." 

There  is  another  who  keeps  crying,  "Oh,  no, 
not  that !  Oh,  no,  not  that !  * ' 

There  is  the  petit  pere,  who  is  getting  smaller 
53 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

and  smaller.  When  they  are  dying,  they  seem 
always  to  get  smaller  and  smaller.  He  had  a 
bullet  through  one  lung,  but  it  was  out  and  he 
was  getting  well.  Only,  he  caught  cold. 

He  is  from  the  north.  His  wife  and  his  two 
little  girls  are  somewhere  in  the  country  from 
which  no  news  comes.  He  has  had  no  news  of 
them  since  he  left  them  and  went  away  to  war, 
on  the  second  day. 

He  used  to  talk  of  them  all  the  time,  and  worry 
terribly. 

But  now  he  cannot  talk  at  all,  and  he  does  not 
worry  any  more.  He  smiles  quite  happily  and 
has  no  more  grief. 

When  they  do  the  dressings  of  Number  26 
he  crams  his  handkerchief  into  his  mouth  so 
that  he  may  not  scream.  He  shivers  and  trembles 
and  the  tears  roll  down  his  cheeks,  very  big  tears. 
But  he  never  makes  a  sound. 

Number  15  is  not  a  boy  at  all,  but  just  a 
little  sick  thing.  He  is  so  very  little  in  his  bed. 
He  is  like  a  sparrow — the  skeleton  of  a  sparrow. 

I  feed  him  crumbs  of  bread,  and  sips  of  water, 
as  if  he  were  a  sparrow. 

How  one  loves  a  thing  one  has  fed  with  a 
teaspoon. 

I  do  not  like  No.  30.  I  am  always  so  afraid 
that  I  shall  in  some  way  show  how  I  dislike  him. 
54 


Hospital 

It  is  hateful  of  me,  but  I  cannot  like  him.  He 
screams  at  his  dressings,  and  he  is  fat,  and  he 
sends  out  and  buys  cheeses  and  eats  them. 

The  little  Zouave  is  better  again.  That  is  the 
most  dreadful  thing,  that  it  is  so  long.  He  takes 
so  long  to  die.  The  days  when  he  is  better  are 
the  most  cruel  days. 

To-day  in  the  middle  of  the  morning,  he  was 
beckoning  to  me  with  a  feeble  little  thin  brown 
hand. 

I  went  over  and  bent  down,  for  he  can  only 
whisper. 

He  said,  "I  said  good  morning  to  you  when 
you  first  came  in,  and  you  did  not  know." 

Number  4  is  not  going  to  die.  The  shade  of 
death  is  gone  from  his  young  face. 

He  is  going  to  lie  for  a  long  time  on  a  rubber 
cushion  that  has  a  tube  hanging  down,  quite 
long,  like  a  tail. 

Every  day,  for  a  long  time,  at  the  dressings 
I  shall  have  to  pull  back  the  sheets  and  blankets 
and  take  away  the  hoop,  and  see  that  thing  that 
used  to  be  a  big  fine  man  lying  quite  helpless  and 
of  so  strange  a  shape  upon  the  rubber  cushion 
with  the  tail. 


55 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  Omelet 


vine  was  red  on  the  white  old  soft  wall. 
It  was  very  beautiful.  There  were  masses 
of  purple  asters  under  the  red  vine,  against  the 
wall.  There  was  a  bowl  of  purple  asters  on  the 
table  between  the  carafes  of  red  and  white  vine. 

We  had  an  omelet  and  bread  and  butter  and 
raspberries,  and  water,  very  beautiful  in  the 
thick  greenish  glasses. 

Under  the  yellow  boughs  of  the  lime  tree  we 
could  see  the  misty  valley  and  the  mountains. 

The  table  had  a  red-and-white  cloth. 

The  little  old  thin  brown  woman  who  served 
us  wanted  to  talk  all  the  time  with  us.  She 
wanted  to  talk  about  the  omelet;  she  had 
made  it  and  was  very  proud  of  it.  She  wanted 
to  talk  about  the  war  and  to  talk  about  her  son. 

She  said  that  there  had  been  some  horrible, 
strange  mistake  and  that  people  thought  that 
he  was  dead.  She  had  had  a  paper  from  the 
Ministry  of  War  telling  her  he  was  dead.  It  was 
very  strange.  She  had  had  a  letter  also  from  the 
Aumonier,  telling  her  he  was  dead.  But,  of  course, 
she  knew. 

She  said  he  would  come  home,  and  be  so  sorry 
she  had  had  such  dreadful  news,   and  so   glad 
that  she  had  not  believed  it. 
56 


Gentilhommiere 

They  would  laugh  together.  He  had  beautiful 
white  teeth,  she  said,  and  his  eyes  screwed  tight 
up  when  he  laughed. 

She  told  us  how  she  and  he  would  laugh 
together. 


Gentilhommiere 

*  I  ^HE  road,  up  through  the  vineyards  and 
•*•  pastures  and  fields  of  maize  and  of  buck- 
wheat, was  like  the  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent, 
all  tossed  down,  and  grey  and  stony,  between 
the  poplars.  In  other  years  it  had  been  a  well 
enough  kept  little  road,  but  in  this  year  there 
was  no  one  to  care  for  it.  And  surely  it  had 
been  a  mountain  torrent,  in  the  spring's  last 
melting  of  snows  and  in  the  heavy  rains  of  the 
summer.  Who  was  there  left  to  mend  it?  Or 
who,  indeed,  to  travel  it? 

We  climbed  it  slowly  in  the  golden  autumn 
afternoon. 

The  poplar  trees  that  bordered  it  were  almost 
bare,  the  rains  and  winds  of  this  most  dreadful 
year  had  dismantled  them  already.  They  were 
tall  slim  candles,  tipped  with  yellow  flame, 

57 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

They  were  candles  lit  in  sunshine,  too  early, 
before  candle-light  time. 

Autumn  was  come  too  soon. 

The  vines  had  failed.  And  yet  no  one  had 
ever  seen  the  colour  of  the  vines  so  beautiful. 

The  road  climbs  up  and  up  through  the 
vineyards. 

The  house  stands  on  a  ridge,  among  chestnut 
trees  that  were  turned  already  golden  and  brown, 
high  against  the  high  wall  of  the  mountains. 

The  mountains  were  of  the  colours  of  the 
vintage,  purple  and  topaz  and  red. 

The  clouds  made  snow  peaks  high  behind  the 
mountains. 

The  house  has  a  heap  of  steep,  old,  uneven  blue- 
tiled  roofs.  Its  walls  are  as  yellow  as  the  corn. 
There  is  a  long  terrace  before  it,  with  a  stone 
balustrade,  worn  and  soft,  and  a  pigeon  tower 
at  one  end  of  the  terrace,  and  the  tower  of  a  great 
dark  yew  tree  at  the  other  end. 

I  thought  what  a  withdrawn  little  place  it  was, 
held  quite  apart,  like  a  thing  treasured  and  feared 
for. 

The  road  passes  under  the  pigeon-tower  end 
of  the  terrace,  and  round  into  a  courtyard  that 
the  farm  and  service  houses  close  in  on  two  sides. 

The  courtyard  smelled  of  clover  and  of  cows. 
Multitudes  of  white  pigeons  fluttered  about  the 


Gentilhommiere 

old  thatched  roofs  of  the  grange,  where  the  hay 
was  stored  in  the  gable,  and  corn  hung  drying 
in  golden  festoons,  and  the  dust  of  the  threshing 
floor  was  deeply  fragrant.  The  wine  vats  smelled 
of  grapes.  And  odours  of  lavender  and  wild 
thyme  came  close  down  from  the  mountain  side. 

The  entrance  door  stood  open,  across  the  grass 
and  cobbles  of  the  court,  to  whosoever  might 
trouble  to  go  in. 

There  was  a  great  chestnut  tree  on  either  side  of 
the  door,  and  the  ground  about  the  door  was 
strewn  with  brown  burrs  and  golden  leaves. 

A  little  old  peasant  woman,  who  must  surely 
have  been  the  Nounou  long  ago,  came  to  the 
door,  in  sabots  and  the  white  stiff  winged  cap  of 
the  country. 

She  said  that  Madame  had  gone  down  to  the 
black  wheat  fields. 

The  waxed,  black,  shining  stairs  came  straight 
down  into  the  red-tiled  hall. 

Across  the  hall  there  was  a  fine  carved  and 
painted  room,  that  lay  all  along  the  length  of 
the  terrace.  That  room  was  closed  because  of 
the  war.  "Madame  had  it  closed,"  explained 
the  little  old  nurse,  "since  the  day  when  Monsieur 
Xaxa  went/' 

In  the  dining-room  there  was  a  big  table 
pushed  back  to  the  wall,  with  many  chairs 

59 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

crowded  out  of  the  way  against  it.  The  old 
nurse  said,  "We  do  not  use  this  room,  now  that 
Monsieur  Xaxa  is  gone. ' ' 

She  would  show  us  the  kitchen  with  its  red- 
brick tiles,  and  dark,  great  beams,  and  earthen  jars 
and  coppers,  and  its  old  stone  hearth,  like  an 
altar. 

She  said,  "Nothing  is  kept  as  beautifully  as  it 
should  be.  Madame  and  I  are  quite  alone." 

She  would  have  us  go  up  the  shining  stairs. 
"You  must  see  the  room  of  Monsieur  1'Abbe,"  she 
said,  "it  is  all  ready  for  him.  He  comes  to-night. 
We  have  been  for  days  and  days  getting  his 
room  and  all  the  house,  prepared  for  him." 

There  were  purple  and  white  asters  in  bowls 
and  vases.  The  floor  of  the  room  shone  like  a 
golden  floor.  The  old  green  shadowy  mirror 
reflected  the  room  as  if  it  were  a  dream  room, 
into  which  one  might  pass,  just  stepping  through 
the  tarnished  lovely  frame.  The  bed  was  covered 
with  a  very  fine  ancient  green-and-white  striped 
brocade.  On  the  bed,  under  the  crucifix  and 
the  Holy  Water  basin  and  the  spray  of  box, 
there  were  laid  out  Monsieur  1' Abbe's  soutane 
and  his  soft  hat  with  the  tassel.  His  em- 
broidered worsted  slippers  stood  on  the  golden 
floor  beside  the  bed. 

"He  is  Madame 's  eldest  son,"  said  the  old 
60 


Chateau 

nurse,  "and  he  is  a  great  and  wonderful  saint. 
A  great  and  wonderful  saint." 

"But,"  she  said,  as  we  went  out  of  his  room 
to  the  stairs,  l '  it  'was  always  Monsieur  Xaxa  that 
Madame  loved  best." 

As  we  went  down  the  stairs  she  added,  "He 
was  a  wild  boy,  but  we  adored  him.  He  was 
always  wild,  not  like  Monsieur  1'Abbe.  But 
how  we  adored  him ! ' ' 

She  said,  "I  thought  Madame  would  die  the 
day  he  went  away.  But  yet  it  is  he  who  is  dead, 
since  seven  months,  and  Madame  and  I,  we  live." 

Chateau 

*  I^HE  gates  stand  open.    Some  one  has  broken 
•*•       open  the  gates.     Or  perhaps  no  one  had 
troubled  to  close  them. 

The  porter's  lodge,  under  the  limes,  is  empty. 

The  avenue  of  ancient,  stately  lime  trees  that 
leads  to  the  chateau,  is  overgrown,  in  this  one 
year,  deep  with  grass  and  moss.  The  trees,  that 
have  not  been  trimmed,  shade  it  too  darkly.  The 
leaves  of  the  lime-trees  are  falling.  In  another 
year  it  would  seem  strange  if  the  leaves  fell  so, 
before  the  end  of  August;  but  in  this  year  no 
death  seems  strange.  The  dead  leaves  lie  deep 
in  the  avenue. 

61 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

At  the  end  of  the  avenue  the  chateau  stands, 
helplessly.  Through  long  times  and  much  his- 
tory, its  towers  commanded  the  valley  and 
the  great  road  of  the  river.  Its  name  rang  in 
high  councils,  and  its  banners  knew  the  winds  of 
many  wars. 

Again  its  sons  went  out  to  battle.  They  were 
three  of  them.  They  went,  just  more  than  a  year 
ago,  three  gay  young  chasseurs  alpins.  They 
are  all  three  of  them  dead,  on  the  field  of  honour. 

The  little  aged  orange  trees  are  all  dead  in 
their  green  tubs  in  the  courtyard.  The  ivy 
has  grown  across  the  great  barred  entrance  door. 
The  lantern  over  the  door  is  full  of  swallows' 
nests. 

The  old  Monsieur  and  the  old  Madame  are  gone 
away.  How  could  they  have  lived  on  in  the 
house  that  was  not  to  be  for  their  sons? 

We  asked  many  people  in  the  village,  but  no 
one  knew  where  they  had  gone. 


Shopping 

I 

IN  the  library  of  the  Octagon  I  found  some  little 
etchings  of  these  old  streets  and  courtyards 
and    allees    murees,    steep    roofs    and    balconies 


Shopping 

and  open  loggie,  carved  windows  and  doorways, 
corners  and  turnings,  done  beautifully  by  some- 
one who  had  surely  understood  them.  He  had 
known  how  the  smell  of  old  wood  and  stone 
strikes  out  from  certain  shadows  and  stabs  you 
in  the  heart;  and  the  sudden  sharp  loneliness 
you  feel  because  of  dead  leaves  driven  against  the 
tower  stairs. 

The  librarian  said,  "He  was  indeed  an  artist. " 

The  librarian  was  very  old.  He  wore  a  little 
black  skull  cap  and  a  grey  muffler  about  his 
throat.  He  was  bent  quite  over,  and  could  see 
what  I  had  taken  only  when  he  held  the  things 
close  to  his  eyes.  His  hands  were  twisted  like 
old  brown  fagots,  and  they  trembled  and  fumbled 
as  he  held  the  etchings,  one  after  the  other,  close 
to  his  eyes. 

"We  were  very  proud  of  him,"  said  the 
librarian,  "he  was  of  this  town.  He  would  have 
given  the  town  fame  throughout  the  world.  His 
right  arm  is  shot  away.  And  he  is  so  young." 

He  kept  on  repeating  that  while  he  tied  up  my 
etchings. 

"He  is  so  young,"  kept  saying  the  librarian, 
who  is  so  old. 

II 

As  I  was  leaving  the  antiquity  shop  in  the 
rue  Basse  du  Chateau,  standing  a  minute  at  the 

63 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

door  with  the  antiquary's  pretty  young  wife 
and  the  two  fat  babies,  there  came  along  the 
street  four  fantassins,  two  of  them  limping,  one 
with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  carrying  a  funeral 
wreath  between  them. 

It  was  made  of  zinc  palms  and  laurels,  and  the 
tricolour  was  laid  across  it. 

We  stood,  not  saying  anything. 

The  fantassins  passed,  going  up  toward  the 
ramparts  of  the  Porte  du  Midi  and  the  cemetery, 
carrying  their  comrade's  wreath  and  the  flag. 

The  antiquary's  little  young  wife  was  crying. 

She  said,  "I  have  a  letter  to-day  from  my 
husband.  I  have  a  letter  every  ten  days.  He 
also  is  a  fantassin.  He  is  in  the  Argonne."  She 
threw  back  her  head  that  the  tears  might  stay 
back  in  her  eyes,  and  said,  "He  was  very  well 
when  he  wrote.  He  wrote  that  he  was  very  well, 
and  that  I  was  not  to  be  afraid." 

Ill 

I  went  to  scold  the  old  woman  of  the  fruit  shop 
because  she  never  remembers  my  apricots. 

The  fruit  shop  in  the  rue  des  Ramparts  is  a 
low  stone  doorway,  hung  with  scarlet  peppers  and 
dried  golden  corn  and  yellow  gourds,  and  onions 
that  are  of  opal  and  amethyst  and  pearl;  and 
heaped  about  with  cabbages  and  lettuce  and 


Mountains 

tomatoes  and  the  few  fruits  of  the  season,  black- 
berries and  plums  and  apricots. 

The  old  woman  sits  in  the  doorway.  She  wears 
the  white  winged  cap  and  a  blue  apron  and  a 
brown  silk  fringed  shawl  and  a  big  gold  cross  on 
a  gold  chain.  Her  husband  was  killed  in  '70. 
She  has  no  son.  Her  daughter's  three  big  sons 
were  very  kind  to  her.  They  are  all  three  of 
them  chasseurs  alpins.  From  one  there  has  been 
no  news  since  eleven  months  ago. 

She  was  sitting  perfectly  still  in  her  place,  her 
hands  lying  together,  hard-worked  and  tired,  on 
her  blue  apron.  She  was  looking  straight  ahead 
of  her  and  did  not  see  me  at  alj. 

I  stood  and  looked  at  her,  and  did  not  speak 
and  saw  far-off  things,  and  turned  and  went 
away. 


Mountains 

I 

inn,   up   in   the   rough  stony   town   of 
the  high  mountains,   was  forlorn  enough. 
There   were   some   dogs  and   chickens   about   the 
door  of  it,  in  the  wet  street. 
The  woman  who  came  to  the  door  of  the  inn 
65 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

was  one  of  those  thin,  dark  pale,  quiet  women 
about  whom  there  is  always  something  sym- 
pathetic and  sad.  She  said,  she  feared  the  inn 
could  do  us  little  honour;  we  must  forgive, 
because  of  the  war. 

The  stone  hall  was  narrow  and  cold,  the  stairs 
went  straight  up  from  the  farther  end  of  it,  and 
two  doors  opened  from  it  on  either  side  of  it. 

The  woman  took  our  wraps,  and  put  them 
down  on  a  table  that  there  was  by  the  entrance 
door. 

Before  the  door  to  the  right,  down  by  the  stairs, 
there  was  a  small,  fat,  blonde  baby  standing,  a 
little  round-headed  boy  baby,  in  a  black  blouse, 
knocking  on  the  door  and  crying  and  calling 
' '  Georgeot. ' '  He  did  not  turn  to  look  at  us  at 
all,  but  went  on  always  knocking  and  crying. 

The  woman  said,  "You  see,  we  never  expect 
any  one  now,  but  if  Monsieur  and  Madame  will 
be  indulgent — this  is  the  dining-room,  Madame/' 
she  opened  one  of  the  doors  on  the  left,  and  went 
ahead  of  us  into  the  dark  room,  and  groped  to 
the  window  to  throw  back  the  blinds. 

We  went  to  one  of  the  bare  tables,  and  she 
arranged  it  for  us,  not  talking  to  us  any  more. 
And  after  a  while  fetched  us  potatoes  and  cheese, 
and  sour  bread  and  red  wine  which  tasted  of  the 
roots  and  stems  of  vines. 
66 


Mountains 

Whenever  she  left  the  door  a  little  open  behind 
her,  we  could  hear  the  baby  in  the  hall  sobbing 
and  calling  for  ' '  Georgeot. ' '  We  asked  her, 
"But  the  poor  little  soul,  what  is  the  matter 
that  he  calls  like  that?" 

She  told  us  it  was  his  father  he  was  calling. 
She  said  he  had  been  hearing  her  call  his  father 
"Georgeot."  His  father  had  been  home  for 
six  days'  leave,  and  was  gone  back  just  this  morn- 
ing. "You  understand,"  she  said,  "my  husband 
had  not  seen  his  baby  in  eleven  months,  and  he 
had  him  every  minute  in  his  arms ;  and  since  he  is 
gone  the  baby  will  not  go  away  from  his  door,  or 
stop  calling  for  him." 

She  did  not  seem  to  want  to  talk  any  more 
about  it,  and  we  pretended  to  find  our  lunch 
most  excellent. 

When  we  went  out  into  the  hall  again  she  had 
picked  the  baby  up,  and  was  standing  with  him 
in  her  arms,  there  by  his  father's  door.  She 
patted  his  yellow  head  down  against  her  shoulder, 
but  he  still  went  on  crying  for  "Georgeot." 

It  was  raining  hard  out  in  the  grey  street. 

In  a  shop  under  a  vaulting,  that  the  crook  of 
a  shepherd  Saint  had  blessed  through  hundreds 
of  years,  I  bought  a  queer  sort  of  woolly  beast 
for  the  baby. 

But  the  baby  did  not  care  for  it  at  all. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

II 

Going  on  yet  higher  up  into  the  mountains, 
we  met  a  dreary  little  funeral,  coining  down  under 
umbrellas.  The  coffin,  under  a  black  cloth,  was 
pushed  along  in  a  two-wheeled  cart  by  a  woman 
and  a  very  old  man.  Some  women  and  two  or 
three  old  people  followed,  and  some  children  and 
dogs. 

It  was  not  the  funeral  of  a  soldier,  only  of  some 
one  uselessly  dead. 

Ill 

Bain,  sunshine,  wet  black  rock,  great  blue 
and  black  and  purple  clouds,  clear  azure  spaces, 
snows,  lifted  drifted  crests  of  snow,  like  waves 
arrested — all  this  as  we  went  up,  and  up,  with  a 
rainbow  like  a  bridge  across  the  valley  we  were 
leaving  behind  us. 

Up  and  up  and  up,  into  the  young  joy  of  the 
mountains,  young  as  at  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  joyous  above  all  things.  What  do  they 
care,  the  great  mountains?  They  stand  quite 
still,  and  all  things  pass.  They  lift  their  heads, 
and  do  not  even  know. 

A  baby  cried  because  its  father  was  gone  away 
to  war.  Its  mother  did  not  cry  at  all. 

A  stranger  came  by  and  cried,  not  because  of 
those  especial  people,  but  because  of  the  world. 
68 


Mountains 

A  little  funeral  straggled  down  the  hill  in  the 
rain. 

None  of  it  mattered. 

I  thought,  we  went  up  high  above  all  griefs. 

Some  children  and  a  woman,  from  a  hut  up  in 
the  snow,  came  to  beg  of  us. 

I  thought,  for  what  did  they  need  to  beg,  they, 
who  had  the  everlasting  snows?  I  thought,  how 
absurd  to  beg  for  bread  to  live,  in  a  place  where 
death  would  be  so  pure  and  clear,  would  ring  out 
so  joyously.  I  thought,  how  nice  it  is  that  all 
the  roads  of  life  lead  up  to  death.  And  that 
death,  however  come  to,  is  so  high  a  thing. 

It  was  terribly  cold.     The  snow  was  over  us 
and  under  us,  as  the  clouds  were. 
IV 

In  the  round  basin  circled  with  snows,  the 
ancient  hospice — that  is  no  more  a  hospice,  from 
which  its  old  possessors  have  been  driven  away— 
stands  white,  beside  the  white  road,  in  the  close-- 
cropped pasture.  The  sheep  and  tawny  rough 
cattle  were  the  only  things  that  stirred.  The 
smoke  of  the  hospice  chimneys  stayed  quite 
motionless  in  the  golden  air. 

The  air  rang  like  a  golden  bell. 

The  music  of  the  cow-bells  was  no  more  dis- 
tinct a  music  than  that  of  just  the  golden  ringing 
of  the  air. 

69 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

They  lighted  a  fire  in  the  stove  of  the  long  white 
refectory,  and  we  had  tea  and  bread  and  butter 
and  honey  beside  it. 

There  were  no  guests  in  the  hospice.  The  little 
white  stone  rooms,  that  used  to  be  the  monks ' 
cells,  had  floors  of  red-brick  tiles  and  thick  walls, 
and  each  cell  had  one  deep  narrow  window. 

The  woman  who  built  our  fires,  and  fetched  our 
tea,  and  showed  us  to  our  little  white  stone  rooms, 
was  not  old,  but  looked  very  old  and  sad.  She  had 
a  red  knitted  shawl  and  big  gold  earrings,  and  big 
brown  dumb  eyes. 

"We  went  out  into  the  music  of  the  sunset,  every 
mountain  peak  was  singing.  It  was  utterly  still, 
except  for  the  sheep-bells  and  cow-bells.  The 
silence  was  a  great  music,  joyous  and  grave. 

V 

I  am  sitting  up  in  bed,  writing  by  the  light 
of  two  candles;  it  is  a  golden  light,  in  the  pure 
white  moonlight  that  fills  the  cell. 

The  slit  of  a  window  opposite  the  bed  is  wide 
open,  and  the  moonlight  floods  in. 

I  am  so  cold,  I  have  put  on  my  big  travelling 
coat. 

The  moonlit  air  tastes  of  mountain  tops.     The 
stillness  is  immense  in  the  small  room.     All  the 
silences  of  the  world  are  in  the  room. 
70 


Mountains 

I  cannot  see  the  moon,  nor  the  snow  peaks; 
only  the  sky  of  sheer  moonlight,  and  a  dark  dim 
mountain,  looming. 

I  am  so  glad  to  be  awake  and  cold. 

VI 

While  I  was  writing,  something  happened.  An 
ugly  sound  broke  the  spell.  Some  one  was  com- 
ing to  the  hospice.  There  was  the  sound  of  a 
motor-bicycle,  from  a  long  way  off,  coming 
through  the  stillness.  There  was  the  calling  of  its 
horn  and  then  it  was  at  the  door. 

I  heard  the  door  open,  and  a  cry  of  delight ;  and 
a  man's  young  voice,  joyous,  high-keyed,  intense, 
and  a  woman's  voice,  laughing  and  sobbing. 

VII 

I  saw  the  sun  come  up  out  of  the  snow,  I  saw 
all  the  marvellous  things  that  there  are  between 
darkness  and  dawn. 

I  had  made  myself  stay  awake  the  whole  night 
through,  to  not  lose  one  minute  of  the  mountains. 
The  mountains  were  mine,  from  sunset  through 
the  dusk  and  the  dark  and  the  moonlight,  to  the 
dark  again,  and  through  that  other  so  different 
dusk  that  is  before  the  dawn,  to  the  sun's  great 
silent  rising,  and  the  full  glory  of  the  day. 

71 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


VIII 

It  was  the  son  of  the  woman  of  the  gold  ear- 
rings and  the  red  shawl,  who  had  come  home  in 
the  night,  unexpected,  for  six  days'  leave. 

He  was  out  in  the  morning  pastures,  a  tall  lean 
mountain  boy,  with  gleaming  white  teeth,  and 
brown  eyes  like  his  mother's,  but  laughing,  and 
with  absurd  dimples  in  his  brown  young  face. 

His  mother  was  out  with  him  in  the  dawn,  the 
red  shawl  over  her  head,  keeping  close  beside  him 
as  he  went  swinging  across  the  pastures,  her  short 
step  almost  running  by  his  long  step. 


The  Little  Maitre  d'Hotel 

UR  little  worried  grey  butler  is  gone. 

His  class  has  been  called  out,  the  class  of 
Quatre-vingt-douze. 
It  appears  he  was  only  forty-three. 
I  had  thought  he  was  sixty  at  least.     It  must 
be  because  he  has  been  anxious  all  his  life  that 
he  seems  so  old. 

He  was  terribly  worried  and  anxious  when  he 

talked  to  me,  the  night  before  he  went,   about 

the  old  father  and  mother  he  must  leave.     He 

would  be  going  probably  only  somewhere  back 

72 


The  Garage 

of  the  lines  to  guard  a  bridge  or  a  railway,  but  for 
him  it  meant — who  knows  what  darkly,  helplessly 
imagined  things?  He  talked  a  great  deal  in  a 
high-pitched  voice — standing  there,  very  white 
in  his  proper  livery — of  bayonet  attacks,  of  the 
coal  he  had  managed  to  get  in  for  the  old  people, 
of  dying  for  France,  and  of  his  mother's  rheuma- 
tism, and  of  the  cow  they  had  had  to  sell. 


The  Garage 

'TpHERE  are  twelve  convalescents  installed 
•*•  after  a  fashion  in  the  garage  half-way  down 
the  field  path.  They  are  so  nearly  well  that 
they  can  make  up  their  beds  and  sweep  out  their 
rooms  and  wash  at  the  pump  and  go  down  to 
eat  at  the  canteen  of  the  hospital  Sainte  Barbe. 
They  go  to  the  Clinique  there  every  second  or 
third  or  fourth  day.  An  orderly  comes  up  from 
there  once  in  a  while  with  clean  linen  for  them. 
And  that  is  all  they  need  be  troubled  about.  They 
are  quite  comfortable  and  very  forlorn. 

They  spend  their  days  hanging  out  of  the 
windows  of  the  loft  over  the  garage  or  sitting 
about  the  big  board  table  of  the  space  under- 
neath, where  the  motors  used  to  be  kept. 

Most  of  them  are  men  from  cities  who  do  not 
73 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

know  what  to  do  with  the  country,  and  the  three 
or  four  who  are  country  boys  know  so  well  what 
to  do  with  vines  and  fields,  that  the  vines  and 
fields  they  may  not  labour,  so  close  about 
them  here,  only  worry  them.  They  are  the  men 
who  get  most  cross  and  quarrelsome  over  the 
games  of  cards  at  the  board  table. 

They  all  quarrel  more  or  less.  Sometimes  I 
wonder,  how  can  men  who  are  so  splendid,  so 
simply,  steadily,  dumbly  splendid,  who  have 
been  through  so  much,  seen  death  so  close,  and 
life  so  close,  quarrel  like  this  over  nothing  at  all. 
But  most  times  I  understand. 

The  crickets  trill  all  the  hot  noons  in  the  grass, 
and  the  droning  of  the  bees  sounds  very  hot. 
Like  clouds  of  white  butterflies  drift  over  the 
path,  make  little  drifting  butterfly  shadows  on 
the  path.  There  is  a  most  wonderful  smell  of 
clover  in  the  heat.  Down  under  the  fields  there 
are  heaped  together  the  crowded  old  rust-red 
and  burnt  umber  and  golden  roofs  of  the  town. 
And  all  away  beyond  there  is  the  valley,  opened 
out,  long  road  and  river,  to  high,  far  distances  of 
mountains  and  snows. 

I  go  and  sit  with  my  friends  about  the  big 

board  table,  in  the  place  where  the  motors  used 

to  be  kept.     I  play  cards  with  my  friends,  the 

twelve  convalescents.     I  play  badly,  for  I  hate 

74 


The  Garage 

cards,  but  they  like  to  have  a  guest.  They  try 
to  arrange  the  game  so  that  I  may  win.  They 
want  me  to  win;  they  think  that  I  will  enjoy  it 
better.  If  they  knew  how  bored  I  am  they 
would  be  dreadfully  upset.  I  wish  I  loved  cards 
and  could  play  well,  to  please  them. 

Towards  evening  they  are  certain  to  be  cross 
with  one  another. 

One  after  the  other  they  will  soon  be  going 
back  to  the  Front,  all  of  them.  There  is  not  one 
of  them  who  will  go  unwillingly.  They  have  been 
there,  they  know  what  it  is,  but  there  is  not 
one  who  will  grumble  when  he  goes  back,  or 
fail  when  he  faces  that  again.  Every  one  of  them, 
when  he  goes  back,  will  say  the  same  thing. 
"Of  course  I  must  go  back,  all  the  comrades 
are  there. "  "Tous  les  copains  sont  la-bas." 
But  in  the  meantime  they  quarrel. 

From  the  doors  of  the  garage,  wide,  one  sees 
the  sunset  among  the  mountains.  The  bats 
flit  across  and  the  owls  call.  The  dusk 
comes,  velvet-thick  and  soft,  with  smells  of 
fields  and  vineyards  and  of  the  town's  hearth 
fires,  and  with  the  myriad  voices  of  cigale  and 
frog  and  sleepy  bird,  and  with  the  small  life 
noises  of  the  town.  Gathering  up,  and  folding 
in,  the  night  comes. 

There  is  electric  light  in  the  garage  that  my 
75 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

friends  are  very  proud  of  indeed.  A  huge  naked 
bulb  dangles  from  a  cord  over  the  table  where 
we  sit  playing  cards. 


Francine 

/HT*  HE  son  of  Francine  is  home  on  leave. 
•*•       Francine  comes  every  day  to  help  in  the 
kitchen.     She  was  scrubbing  the  kitchen's  grey 
stone  flags  when  her  son  came. 

He  came  swinging  up  the  path  between  the 
wheat  and  poppies  and  cornflowers.  He  came 
up  the  terrace  steps,  in  his  leggings  and  his 
beret,  a  fine  young  diable  bleu. 

Francine  came,  running,  wiping  her  red  hands 
in  her  apron,  suddenly  beautiful  and  very  proud. 

Railway    Station,   The    Days   of   the 
25th 


/T*HE  trains  of  wounded  arrive  almost  always 
•*•  at  dawn,  the  late  autumn  dawn. 

The  lamps  of  the  station  are  still  burning,  but 
grow  pale. 

Beyond  the  open  platform,  across  the  tracks, 
you  can  see  that  dawn  has  come  to  the  sky, 
behind  the  mountains. 


Railway  Station,  The  Days  of  the  25th 

There  is  a  star  in  the  midst  of  the  dawn, 
Hesper,  star  of  both  the  twilights,  very  big  and 
bright  and  near,  like  a  lamp. 

It  is  very  cold. 

In  the  pale  light  of  the  dawn  and  the  pale  light 
of  the  station  lamps  they  wait  for  the  train  of 
wounded  to  come  in. 

The  Red  Cross  has  a  cantine  at  the  station  in 
what  used  to  be  the  buffet.  But  these  men  will 
be  past  need  of  coffee  and  soup. 

The  cart  of  the  buffet,  that  used  to  be  pushed 
along  the  trains  with  breakfasts  under  the  carriage 
windows,  is  heaped  now,  in  these  days,  with 
very  strange  things.  There  is  need  of  these 
things,  always.  There  is  this,  and  that,  that 
cannot  wait. 

The  doctors  from  the  Lycee  Prince  Victor,  now 
the  big  military  hospital,  are  there  by  the  chariot. 
They  stand  waiting  and  talking  together.  They 
turn  up  their  coat  collars  and  sink  their  hands 
in  their  pockets  and  stamp  their  feet  in  the  cold 
of  the  dawn. 

The  orderlies  wait  with  their  stretchers,  back 
against  the  wall,  under  the  gay  posters  of  places 
where  people  used  to  go  to  be  amused. 

The  Eed  Cross  nurses  keep  back  in  the  cantine, 
where  it  is  warmer. 

The  train  is  late.  It  has  been  from  three  to 
77 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

six  hours  late  each  one  of  these  dreadful  mornings. 

Everything  has  been  ready  since  long,  long 
ago,  in  the  deepest  dark  of  the  night. 

If  only  there  are  enough  blankets. 

The  train  is  terribly,  terribly  late. 

New  Ones 

TT  was  for  this  that  they  evacuated  last  week 
••"  all  who  could  possibly  be  moved,  to  fill 
the  wards  with  other  broken  things.  They 
gathered  up  all  the  broken  things  that  had  lain 
here  so  long,  and  sent  them  away.  And  now 
the  wards  are  full  of  other  broken  things. 

The  old  ones  had  grown  accustomed  to  the 
rooms.  They  had  suffered  and  been  unhappy 
in  these  rooms,  and  when  they  had  to  go  away 
they  did  not  want  to  go.  They  had  nothing  left 
but  the  place  and  people  of  their  suffering,  and 
they  found,  when  they  had  to  go,  that  they  loved 
the  place  and  the  people  they  had  grown  so  used 
to.  They  seemed  to  be  afraid  to  go  away.  To 
all  the  weariness  was  added  this  new  weariness. 

And  now  the  wards  are  full  of  new  ones. 

The  new  ones  lie  very  still. 


Another  Winter,  Thursday,  October  7th 

Deaths 

IT  is  quite  simple. 
If  it  can  be  that  the  priest  comes,  it  is 
very  well.  All  that  the  priest  does  is  beautiful. 
The  feet  and  hands,  the  eyes,  the  lips  have 
sinned,  and  the  touch  of  forgiveness  upon  them 
is  exquisite.  It  is  exquisite,  that  last  entering 
in  of  the  Divine  Body  to  the  body  that  is  dying. 
But  if  for  any  reason  no  priest  comes,  if  no  one 
cares  or  troubles  to  ask  for  him,  or  if  there  is  no 
time,  God  is  most  surely  there  and  under- 
stands. And  one  is  comforted  to  find  that  there 
is  no  need  to  fear  for  them,  as  they  die. 

They  die  so  quietly.  I  am  glad  to  know  how 
quiet  a  thing  it  is  to  die. 

There  was  only  one  who  was  not  quiet. 

They  bound  ice  about  his  head,  and  then  he 
did  not  shriek  and  fling  himself  about  any  more, 
but  lay  quite  quietly  until  he  died. 

Another  Winter,  Thursday, 
October  yth 

\T7HEN  the  rain  had  gone  over,  in  the  late 

afternoon,    and    the    clouds    were    lifted 

and  drifted  a  little,  we  saw  that  there  was  snow 

79 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

on  all  the  near  mountains,  through  the  pines,  upon 
the  pastures. 

The  cold  wet  street  was  full  of  excited  swallows. 
Here  was  the  cold.  The  cold  was  come  too  soon. 
They  never  yet  had  gone  south  so  early. 

Dear  me,  dear  me — where  would  they  stop 
the  night? 

Up  under  all  the  old  shaggy  rusty  eaves,  that 
reach  out  over  the  narrow  streets,  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  swallows  were  crowding  each  other 
in  and  out  of  sheltered  places,  such  a  fluttering 
and  twittering.  Under  thatch  and  tiles,  along 
the  ledges  of  fine  proud  old  stone  windows,  and 
of  wine-red  wooden  balconies,  they  pushed  and 
crowded  each  other,  and  in  and  out  of  the  brown 
clayey  nests  that  summer  had  abandoned. 

People  in  the  streets  stopped  to  watch,  laughing 
a  little. 

People  in  the  cold,  wet  streets  stopped  to 
watch  the  swallows,  women  and  old  people  and 
children. 

"They  have  seen  the  snow  on  the  mountains," 
said  the  people  to  one  another,  laughing  a  little. 

And  then  always,  every  one  said,  each  to  the 
other,  the  same  thing. 

The  one  thought  of  all  of  them  together,  "An- 
other winter. " 


PART   III 
Paris 


Monday,    October    nth 

TWAS  thinking  all  night  in  the  train — how 
•••  can  I  look  at  them,  how  can  I  speak  to  them 
in  their  depth  of  grief?  I  was  thinking — when 
the  old  woman  comes  to  open  the  door,  what  can 
I  say  to  her?  When  the  old  man  comes  to  take 
my  big  dressing-case  and  my  little  dressing-case, 
and  my  strap  of  books,  how  can  I  face  him? 
Their  son  is  dead. 

The  son  of  our  concierge  is  dead.  "Mort  au 
Champ  d'Honneur." 

They  were  so  proud  of  him.  They  did  so 
worship  him.  He  was  such  a  clever  boy  that  he 
had  gone  beyond  anything  they  had  ever  imagined. 
If  you  just  in  passing  saw  him  with  them,  you 
thought  he  did  not  belong  to  them  at  all.  You 
thought  he  was  a  gentleman  who  was  waiting  a 
minute  for  some  reason,  there  in  the  loge.  But 
you  would  have  known,  if  you  had  had  time  for 
it,  how  he  worshipped  them  and  was  proud  of 
them;  they  had  worked  so  hard,  his  little  fat 

83 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

slow  sweet  mother  in  the  neat  black  dress,  and 
his  little  stumpy  cross  father,  who  made  it  a 
point  to  come  to  the  door  in  his  shirt  sleeves. 

In  those  wonderful  first  days  the  son  of  our 
concierge  went  away. 

It  was  on  Tuesday,  the  second  day,  in  the 
afternoon,  about  five  o'clock.  He  had  to  be  at 
the  Gare  d'Austerlitz  at  seven,  and  getting  there 
was  difficult. 

I  think  that  day  was  the  most  cruel  and  most 
wonderful  of  all.  I  shall  always  remember  how 
hot  it  was,  and  how  the  leaves  were  fallen  in  the 
garden. 

They  told  me  how  it  seemed  as  if  he  really  could 
not  go.  He  kept  starting,  and  coming  back;  and 
starting,  and  coming  back.  He  hugged  his  little 
fat  old  mother,  in  her  neat  black  dress;  and 
hugged  her,  and  had  to  turn  back  to  hug  her  again. 
His  father  was  going  with  him,  to  help  carry  the 
bundles.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  He  kept 
blowing  and  blowing  his  nose.  His  mother  had 
said  she  would  not  come  to  the  door.  But  she 
did  come  to  the  door.  She  had  said  she  would 
not  stand  to  watch  him  go.  But  she  did,  crying 
and  smiling  and  waving  to  him.  He  got  to  the 
street  corner  four  different  times.  And  three  of 
the  times  he  came  back,  to  hug  her  just  once 
again. 

84 


Same  Day,  llth  of  October 

And  he  is  killed. 

There  will  be  the  little  stumpy  father  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  and  the  little,  so  very  respectable 
mother,  fat  and  slow. 

How  can  I  look  at  them?  What  can  I  say  to 
them? 

They  must  open  the  door  for  us,  and  pay  the 
taxi,  and  carry  up  our  things. 

How  can  I  tell  them  that  I  kneel  before  their 
sorrow  as  if  it  were  a  throne? 


Same  day,    nth  of  October 

'  I AHE  first  thing  to  do  was  to  go  up  to  my 

•*•  neighbour's  queer  big  kitchen — up  on  the 
roofs — because  there  were  eleven  little  soldiers 
at  supper,  to  whom,  though  I  have  not  been  here 
to  see  them  until  now,  I  must  say  good-bye.  It 
is  the  last  day  of  their  leave,  they  will  be  off 
to-morrow. 

Always  my  permissionnaires  eat  with  my  neigh- 
bour's permissionnaires  together  in  the  kitchen 
on  the  roof.  They  are  always  men  from  the 
invaded  countries,  who  have  nowhere  to  go  for 
their  leave. 
Before,  they  have  always  been  men  who  had 

85 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

been  in  hospitals  and  were  sent  to  us  for  their 
sick-leave;  but  these  are  little  young  boys,  the 
Classe  Seize,  just  from  their  depots,  with  a  few 
days  of  leave  before  their  beginning  of  battle. 
The  oldest  of  them  is  nineteen. 

You  go  up  to  the  kitchen  by  a  little  twisted 
stairway,  like  the  stairway  of  a  tower.  On  three 
sides  of  the  kitchen  there  are  charming  blue 
mansarde  roofs  and  black  crooked  chimney-pots, 
and  on  the  fourth  side  there  are  the  tree-tops  of 
an  old  garden.  When  the  leaves  are  fallen, 
one  can  look  down  from  the  kitchen  terrace, 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and  see  all  the 
design  of  the  garden,  paths  and  lawns,  statues 
and  massifs  and  the  big  central  basin,  as  in 
the  ground  plan,  drawn  so  long  ago. 

To-night  the  fallen  leaves  in  the  sunset  made 
the  garden  a  place  all  of  amber.  One  looked 
down  into  an  amber  glow.  And  all  the  roofs  and 
tree-tops  of  the  quarter,  and  the  two  tall  towers 
of  Sainte  Clotilde,  seemed  translucent;  for  the 
gold  of  the  sunset  to  shine  through. 

The  kitchen  has  a  floor  of  polished  red  brick 
tiles  and  shines  with  beautiful  copper  pots. 

Eleven  little  soldiers  were  just  finishing  their 
coffee  at  the  table  with  the  red  cloth. 

What  babies  they  are.  And  how  alike  they 
look,  all  of  them.  It  is  absurd.  Eleven  round 
86 


Tuesday,  October  12th 

close-cropped  heads;  eleven  round  rosy  peasant 
faces;  eleven  pairs  of  round  clear  eager  question- 
ing eyes;  eleven  straight  young  figures,  with 
stiff  gestures,  in  bleu  d 'horizon. 

Classe    Seize,    eighteen   years,    nineteen    years, 
twenty  years.     It  has  become  the  age  to  die. 


Tuesday,  October  iath 
The   Chocolates 

I"  WENT  to  get  some  chocolates  at  a  little  shop 
•*•  near  the  hospital. 

The  woman  of  the  shop  counted  me  out  the 
heap  of  chocolates  one  by  one  in  their  silver  paper. 

She  was  a  thin  pale  little  woman  with  the  sort 
of  blue  eyes  that  are  always  sad.  Her  eyes  looked 
as  if  they  had  cried  and  cried,  in  her  worn  faded 
little  face.  She  had  the  little  woollen  cape  of 
the  quarter  around  her  shoulders  and  her  pale 
hair  was  rather  grey. 

While  she  was  counting  the  chocolates  the 
postman  came.  He  brought  a  big  square  yellow 
envelope  addressed  in  that  special  writing,  surely, 
of  a  little  soldier,  and  with  the  franchise  militaire. 

I  thought — It  is  a  letter  from  her  son. 

She  took  it,  thanking  the  postman,  and  put  it 

87 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

down  on  the  table  and  went  on  counting  out  the 
chocolates. 

"But,  Madame, "  I  said,  "are  you  not  going 
to  read  your  letter?" 

She  turned  and  I  saw  that  she  was  crying. 

"It  is  from  my  son,"  she  said. 

She  began  putting  the  chocolates  in  handfuls 
into  a  paper  bag. 

She  said,  "This  morning  I  had  a  notice  from 
the  Mairie  that  he  is  killed." 


The  Goldfish  and  the  Watch 

a  table  in  the  window  there  was  an  opal- 
blue  bowl  full  of  water,  with  purple  iris 
floating  in  it,  and  little  bright  goldfish,  four  of 
them,  glinting  through  it. 

Some  one  had  given  it  that  day  to  the  children. 

Eene,  the  eldest  boy,  stood  by  the  table  watch- 
ing the  goldfish,  not  thinking  of  his  father  at  all. 

There  were  minutes  in  the  days  when  he  did 
not  think  of  his  father. 

But  afterwards  it  was  always  the  same  thing. 

He  never  told  any  one,  because  he  was  seven 
years  old  and  very  shy.  No  one  would  have 
understood.  And  it  was  dreadful  to  him  when 
people  did  not  understand. 


The  Goldfish  and  the  Watch 

It  was  about  his  father's  watch. 

On  one  thick,  hot,  velvet-black  night,  his  father 
had  come  into  his  room  and  waked  him  with  a 
sudden  switching  on  of  the  light,  and  said,  "Hop 
up,  old  chap,  you've  got  to  go  and  tell  your 
mother  to  stop  crying. " 

"But,  father,  why?  Will  she  not  stop 
when  you  tell  her  ? ' ' 

"It  is  because  of  me  that  she  cries.  I  have 
got  to  go  away." 

"Oh,  father,  why  have  you  got  to  go  away?" 

"Because  there  is  war,  Kene.  I  have  got  to 
go  and  fight.  And  you  have  got  to  stay  and 
look  after  your  mother.  Quick  now;  go  to  her 
and  say,  '  I  'm  here. '  ' ' 

"But,  father " 

"Here's  my  watch  for  you,  old  chap,  and  the 
chain,  you  see.  Mind  you  take  care  of  it.  Don't 
let  it  run  down.  I  want  to  find  it  right  to  the 
minute  when  I  come  back.  And  I  want  to  find 
your  mother  well,  not  crying — and  you,  my  brave 
little  man,  taking  care  of  everything  for  me." 

"Like  the  watch,  father?" 

"Yes,  like  the  watch." 

So  he  had  to  take  simply  terrible  care  of  his 
father's  watch. 

If  it  ran  down,  if  he  let  it  run  down,  what  in 
the  world  would  not  happen? 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  battles  might  be  lost  to  France.  His 
mother  might  die.  And  then  whatever  could  he 
say  to  his  father? 

In  the  days  he  used  to  hurry  home  from  every- 
thing, to  the  watch.  And  in  the  nights  he  used 
to  sit  up  in  bed  to  listen  for  its  ticking.  He 
would  stay  awake  for  hours  in  the  nights,  afraid 
it  might  stop  and  he  not  know.  Often  in  the 
nights  he  would  cry  from  the  tiredness  of  having 
to  keep  awake  and  listen.  But  in  the  days  he 
would  forget  the  watch,  sometimes,  for  a  little. 

To-day  he  was  happy  because  of  the  goldfish. 


Hospital,    Friday,    October 

TUST  these  days  the  people  of  several  of  the 
•*  men  have  been  coming  from  far  to  see  them. 

Way  off,  in  some  little  town  of  Brittany  or 
the  Beam,  or  Provence,  there  had  arrived  word 
that  the  soldier  this  or  that  had  been  wounded 
thus  or  so,  and  was  at  the  hospital.  Upon 
months  and  months  of  waiting  in  dreadful, 
helpless  ignorance,  the  shock  had  come  as  a 
relief  almost. 

But  how  strange  and  terrible  a  thing  the 
journey  was  to  people  who  could  understand  so 
little  what  they  must  do.  Where  to  go,  what  to 
90 


Hospital,  Sunday,  October  17th 

do.  Perhaps  they  were  people  who  had  never 
ventured  beyond  the  town  where  the  diligence 
stopped,  who  never  had  taken  a  train.  They  did 
not  know  what  the  Champagne  meant.  They 
did  not  know  where  Paris  was.  The  departure 
was  a  tremendous  thing.  A  tearing  up  of  roots 
and  cutting  with  a  knife.  Then  the  journey, 
confused  and  terrifying.  Then  the  great  city, 
and  the  great  hospital. 

There  is  a  moment  when  it  seems  as  if  it  were 
a  stranger,  the  boy  lying  there,  in  the  bed  that 
is  one  of  such  a  long  row  of  beds.  His  people 
stand,  a  little  dazed,  down  by  the  door.  The 
long  ward,  the  two  long  rows  of  beds  against  its 
walls,  the  stretcher-beds  down  the  middle  of  it; 
and  all  those  boys  who  lie  so  still — how  strange  it 
seems  to  them!  And  their  boy,  who  does  not 
wave  his  hand  or  shout  to  them,  who  scarcely 
lifts  his  head — his  smile  has  changed,  has  come 
to  be  quite  a  different  smile. 


Hospital,   Sunday,  October   iyth 
Number  24 

DUMBER  TWENTY-FOUR  is  dying.     I  am 

-*-^      very   glad.     It   is   much  better   for   him 

91 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

that  he  should  die.  But  it  takes  so  long.  It  is 
terrible  that  it  should  take  so  long  to  die. 

He  calls  me,  "Ma  petite  dame." 

"My  little  lady,  what  time  is  it?" 

Strange,  how  they  ask  that,  so  many  of  them, 
when  they  are  dying. 

There  is  a  clock  on  the  wall  opposite  his  bed. 
They  tell  me  that  for  three  weeks  he  has  not  been 
able  to  see  it.  He  says  the  room  is  full  of  mist. 

He  says,  "My  little  lady,  can  you  see  the 
clock?" 

I  always  answer,  "No,  I  cannot  see  the  clock." 

He  says,  "You  cannot  see  it  because  of  the 
mist. ' ' 

And  I  say,  "I  cannot  see  it,  because  of  the 
mist." 


La  Mort  (Tun  Civil 

'  I AHE   old   Monsieur  is   dying.     He  has  been 

-*•       dying  for  days  and  days  and  days.     He 

is  dying  at  a  time  when  death  is  very  cheap. 

Every   one   is   dying.     The  youth  of   the   whole 

world    is    being    taken    away.      What    does    it 

matter  at  all  that  an  old  man,  who  has  no  part 

in   the   war,    is  taken   away?     Who,    except   his 

elderly  maiden  daughter,  has  time  to  care? 

92 


La  Mort  d'un  Civil 

Cousine  Gertrude  is  very  kind.  She  comes 
every  evening,  after  the  hospital,  and  stays  for 
two  hours,  sitting  in  the  room,  knitting  grey 
socks,  while  his  daughter  rests  a  little. 

Her  boy,  Francois,  aged  twenty-one,  went  out 
on  the  first  day.  He  has  been  all  the  time  in  the 
trenches,  except  for  one  leave  of  six  days.  He 
is  in  the  trenches  now,  in  Champagne. 

The  man  dying  here  has  everything  that  is 
possible  done  for  him.  He  has  the  best  that  can 
be  had  of  doctors  and  nurses. 

These  boys  in  the  trenches  one  dares  not 
think  of  how  it  may  be  with  them. 

His  daughter  is  very  brave.  She  never  cries. 
She  remembers  that  Cousine  Gertrude  would 
like  a  cup  of  tea. 

She  knows  that  the  son  of  Cousine  Gertrude  is 
young  and  beautiful. 

Death,  in  these  days,  is  young  and  beautiful. 

And  her  father  is  old.  His  death  is  only  a 
dreary  thing. 

She  understands  that  even  people  as  good  as 
Cousine  Gertrude  must  grudge  it  its  place  in 
the  world. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Canal 

TN  all  the  mornings  and  nights,  going  to  the 
•*•  hospital  and  coming  back  from  it,  I  love 
my  canals.  The  canals  of  Venice,  of  Holland, 
rivers  and  great  waterfalls  and  fountains  and 
the  waterways  of  kings'  gardens,  that  people 
travel  far  to  find  beautiful,  are  beautiful  for  all 
the  world.  But  my  canal  is  beautiful  for  just 
me. 

Its  narrow  stone-bound  curve  is  hung  over  by 
uncared-for  plane-trees,  and  by  ragged,  jagged, 
rickety,  crooked  houses,  that  lilt  and  tilt  and  lean 
together  and  over,  dingy  and  dark.  The  rough 
cobbled  quays  have  small  traffic  now;  the  litter 
of  the  canal's  old  life  is  gone  from  them.  They 
are  quiet,  with  no  more  rough  calling  and  shout- 
ing of  carters,  and  turmoil  of  hoofs  and  wheels. 
Sometimes,  but  rarely,  a  slow  heavy  flat  canal 
boat  is  towed  and  poled  along,  through  the  locks 
and  under  the  high  black  bridges.  But  most 
times  the  slow  tawny  water  flows  unbroken. 

The  tawny  leaves  of  the  plane-trees  are  fallen, 
and  lie  on  the  cobbles  and  in  the  water.  The 
stems  and  branches  of  the  plane-trees  have  black 
reflections  in  the  water,  with  the  reflections  of 
crazy  roofs  and  chimney-pots,  and  of  tatters 
and  rags  of  colour  from  windows  and  walls. 
94 


Hospital,  Tuesday,  October  19th 

Sometimes  in  the  mornings,  these  October 
mornings  of  sardius  and  topaz  and  sapphire,  I 
find  myself  singing  as  I  walk  along  the  edge  of 
my  canal.  It  is  so  difficult  not  to  be  happy. 


Hospital 

1\/T  Y  hospital  was,  all  of  it,  built  in  the  time 
•*•*-•-  that  means  lovely  things  of  red-brick  and 
grey  stone  and  blue  gables.  The  courtyards 
are  paved  with  huge  ancient  cobbles,  and  there 
are  grass  plots  that  are  green  and  wet,  and  big 
trees  and  bushes  whose  leaves  are  falling  slowly 
in  blue  stillness. 

There  are  more  than  two  thousand  sick  in 
my  hospital,  six  hundred  wounded  of  the  war, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  of  them  in  our  service. 

I  love  to  write  "my"  hospital  and  "our" 
service. 


Madame   Marthe 
Hospital,   Tuesday,    October    i9th 

KINGS  had  been  very  bad  all  day.     When 
night  came  it  seemed  dreadful  to  go  away 
and  leave  so  much  suffering.     I  thought  of  the 

95 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

night,  with  fever  and  that  special  helplessness 
which  belongs  to  the  night. 

I  would  have  been  so  glad  to  stay  the  night 
out  with  the  ward. 

I  said  that  to  Madame  Marthe,  as  we  left 
together. 

She  said,  "But  why!" 

She  always  has  a  cold  and  wears  a  little  blue 
woollen  cape  over  her  blouse  and  apron.  When 
she  leaves  the  hospital  she  pins  up  the  two  black 
ribbon  streamers  of  her  cap  of  the  tri-couleurs 
and  wraps  her  arms  around  in  the  blue  woollen 
cape.  She  looks  very  small  and  cold  and  poor. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

The  hospital  is  her  world  and  she  is  thankful 
for  every  minute  she  can  get  away  from  it. 

I  leave  my  world  to  come  to  it. 

I  was  ashamed  to  say  to  her,  "It  is  for  my 
own  comfort  I  want  to  stay,  to  make  myself 
imagine  that  I  really  am  needed. " 


Hospital 
Things  They  Say 

T)  ERHAPS  in  other,  different  kinds  of  hospitals, 
hospitals  of  the  little  good  sisters,  or  of  ladies 


Hospital:  Things  They  Say 

of  the  Red  Cross,  hospitals  of  beautiful  influences, 
one  could  not  love  the  men  so  much.  In  hospitals 
where  the  beautiful  things  of  the  Faith,  prayers 
and  tenderness  and  peace,  are  all  around  about 
the  pain  and  death;  and  there  are  words  for 
praise  of  courage  and  sacrifice,  and  words  for 
sympathy  and  for  hope,  and  words  for  high 
ideals;  where  it  is  as  poets  and  painters  and  all 
people  have  always  imagined  it,  perhaps  one 
could  not  get  quite  this  understanding  of  things 
that  are  not  said,  or  come  in  so  rough  and 
vivid  a  way,  upon  unimagined  things. 

One  loves  to  think  of  the  wounded  soldier 
with  the  nun  beside  him,  and  of  the  lady  of  the 
great  world  tending  the  peasant  hero.  One 
loves  to  hear  of  the  men  saying,  "C'est  pour  la 
France." 

Here  there  are  no  pictures  I  would  dare  call 
beautiful.  It  is  crude  and  raw.  And  things 
are  not  said.  When  there  is  not  too  much 
suffering,  it  is  rough.  And  when  the  suffering 
is  great,  it  is  all  very  dumb. 

Here  there  is  no  one  who  knows  how  to  word 
things.  The  men  do  not  know,  and  the  nurses 
do  not  know  how  to  tell  them.  They  all  only 
just  go  on. 

The  nurses  are  poor  women,  of  the  people. 
They  come,  each  one  of  them,  from  her  own  small 

97 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

desperate  struggle  for  life,  each  from  her  own 
crushing  deadening  small  miseries  and  cares, 
without  any  help  of  dream  and  vision,  callously 
— one,  just  looking  on,  might  think — to  their 
work  in  the  hospital.  To  the  great  magnificent 
suffering,  each  one  of  them  comes  dulled  and 
hardened  by  some  small  sordid  helpless  suffering 
of  her  own.  Everything  has  always  been  a 
struggle,  and  this  is  just  part  of  it.  They  work 
on  every  day,  and  all  day  long,  with  no  one  to 
put  into  words  for  them,  devotion  and  sacrifice. 
No  one  here  speaks  of  those  things,  or  thinks  of 
them,  or  even  knows. 

When  I  see  my  little  Madame  Marthe,  my  chief, 
so  very  tired,  I  say  to  her,  "You  work  so  hard." 
And  she  always  says,  shrugging  her  thin  round 
shoulders,  "Qu'est-ce  que  vous  voulez,  i*  faut 
b'en.  Nous  sommes  la  pour  c.a."  If  I  dared 
to  tell  the  patronne,  who  is  intelligent  to  bitter- 
ness, that  I  admired  this  she  did  or  that,  she 
would  say,  "What  of  it,  we  are  paid  for  that." 

Odd  how  often  it  is  the  same  thing  that  people 
say. 

When  I  ask  of  a  man  with  the  Croix  de  Guerre 
what  he  did  to  win  it,  he  always  says,  "Je  n'ai 
fait  que  comme  les  autres." 

A  man  going  back  does  not  say  to  us  here  that 
he  is  glad  to  have  his  life  to  offer  again  for  his 
98 


Hospital:  Things  They  Say 

country.  But  he  says  that  thing  which  makes 
me  catch  my  breath  with  pride  in  him.  "Je 
veux  b'en.  Tous  les  copains  sont  la." 

They  go  off  like  that,  to  those  places  of  death 
that  they  know  already,  wherein  they  have  seen 
things  we  dare  not  imagine,  and  all  they  say 
about  it  is  that  all  the  copains  are  there. 

There  are  not  many  of  my  ward  who  go  back, 
ours  are  the  very  badly  wounded,  the  men  who 
are  out  of  it. 

The  men  have  done  all  that  they  could  do. 
Every  one  of  them  did  all  that  he  could  do,  and 
kept  on  doing  it  as  long  as  he  could.  And  when 
he  could  do  no  more,  why  then  he  was  out  of  it, 
and  it  was  for  others  to  take  up  and  go  on  with. 
He  himself  was  done  with  it.  He  would  rather 
not  talk  about  it.  It  had  been  so  bad  that  he 
does  not  want  to  talk  about  it.  He  does  not 
want  to  think  about  it  any  more. 

He  would  rather  talk  about  things  that  used 
to  happen  "dans  le  pays,"  about  the  vines  or 
the  corn,  or  the  fishing  boat  with  oars  or  with 
sails,  and  "la  vieille"  and  "les  petiots." 

"It  is  pretty  bad?"  I  say,  perhaps,  to  this 
one  or  that  one,  when  I  see  how  he  is  suffer- 
ing. 

I  have  never  heard  one  of  them  say,  "C'est 
pour  la  France. " 

99 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

But  what  they  always,  always  say,  all  of  them, 
is  a  thing  I  think  very  beautiful. 

"You  suffer  much,  my  child?" 

"Pas  trop,  Madame. " 

Always  it  is,  "Not  too  much." 

But  sometimes  it  is  too  much,  and  they 
cannot  bear  it. 

And  when  I  look  at  the  bed  that  used  to  be  his, 
I  think  of  him  lying  there  trying  to  smile  and 
to  say  that  his  suffering  was  not  too  much. 

And  the  new  man  in  the  bed  says  those  same 
words,  as  if  it  were  a  little  formula  always  an 
answer  to  the  question  I  cannot  help  asking. 

4 'You  suffer  much?" 

"Not  too  much,  Madame." 

Sometimes  they  say,  "Ca  va  aller  mieux," 

"  Ca  ne  va  pas,  mon  petit  ? ' ' 

"Ca  va  aller  mieux." 

There  is  only  one  thing  that  is  like  the  things 
one  reads  of.  It  is  that  the  men,  when  they  are 
very,  very  bad,  always,  always  call  for  their 
mothers. 

I  remember  reading  that  somewhere,  and 
thinking  it  was  just  something  somebody  had 
thought  pretty  to  write. 

But  it  is  one  of  the  most  true  and  simple  and 
beautiful  things  that  there  can  be  in  the  world. 

It  is  strange  too.  When  they  suffer  desperately, 
JOQ 


Hospital:  Things  They  Say 

they  keep  saying,  "My  mother,  my  poor  mother/' 
as  if  it  were  she  who  suffered.  They  seem  to  be 
grieving  for  her,  not  for  themselves. 

"When  they  are  frightened  they  call  for  her. 
Some  of  them  are  frightened  of  taking  chloro- 
form. They  have  fought  and  not  been  afraid, 
they  would  not  be  afraid  to  die,  but  chloro- 
form is  different. 

Joseph  opens  the  double  doors  of  the  ward  and 
pushes  the  stretcher  cart  in  and  calls  the  number 
this  or  that. 

He  is  all  ready  and  waiting. 

Joseph  lifts  him  from  the  bed  to  the  cart.  I 
double  a  pillow  under  his  head  and  wrap  the 
blanket  over,  and  follow. 

The  doors  at  the  other  side  of  the  hall  are 
closed,  and  I  run  ahead  to  open  them,  and  shut 
them  behind  again  after  the  cart. 

If  I  can  make  an  excuse  I  go  down  the  corridor 
and  wait  also  at  the  door  of  the  operating  room. 
I  know  the  men  hate  to  wait  there  alone.  Some- 
times there  is  very  long  to  wait.  And  Joseph 
has  to  go  to  do  other  things. 

Sometimes  the  door  of  the  operating  room  is 
ajar,  and  one  can  see  in  a  little,  and  that  is 
horrible.  People  go  in  and  out,  the  doctors,  and 
Madame  Laure,  fetching  and  carrying  things. 
The  stretcher  of  the  man  who  has  been  taken 
101 


Journal  of  Smalt  Things 

in  is  left  pulled  back  against  the  wall,  by  that 
of  the  man  who  is  waiting  his  turn.  I  stand 
very  close  to  my  cart  and  pat  the  blankets. 

The  men  like  to  have  one  wait  with  them. 
There  is  a  thing  many  of  them  say.  It  is  a  dull 
thing,  and  touching,  as  sometimes  dull  things  are. 
They  will  say,  over  and  over,  "If  you  were 
not  here,  I  should  be  alone.  If  you  were  not  here, 
I  should  be  alone. ' ' 

But  when  the  doctors  come,  with  the  chloro- 
form, it  is  only  of  his  mother  the  man  thinks. 
He  says,  "Oh,  maman!  Oh,  maman!"  and 
keeps  all  the  time  saying  it  till  he  sleeps. 

The  adjutant,  the  new  Number  12,  says  that 
you  can  hear  them  calling  maman  all  the  time 
when  they  lie  wounded  between  the  trenches, 
wounded  and  one  cannot  get  to  them  to  pick 
them  up.  He  says  it  is  the  last  word  they  call 
before  they  are  still. 

The  Patronne 

TTAKE  off  my  cloak  and  blue  veil  in  the 
•*•  patronne 's  room. 

The  patronne  is  usually  sitting  at  her  desk. 
Sometimes  she  says  good  morning  to  me,  and 
sometimes  she  doesn  't. 

She  used  to  be  fille  de  salle  in  this  hospital,  she 

102 


The  Patronne 

used  to  clean  these  stairs  and  corridors;  then 
she  rose  to  be  infirmiere  in  the  ward  where  I 
work  now,  and  then  panseuse.  She  is  a  huge 
gaunt  raw-boned  sorrel-coloured  woman,  who 
looks  like  a  war-horse.  She  is  so  alive  and  quick 
that  you  feel  her  personality  stronger  than 
anything  in  the  hospital,  than  anything,  you 
think,  anywhere.  I  have  seen  her  seem  stronger 
than  death — driving  death  away. 

When  Number  17  was  so  very  ill,  I  think  it 
was  she  who  drove  death  away  from  his  bed. 
She  worked  and  swore,  and  worked  and  swore. 
It  was  hideous.  I  laugh  when  I  remember. 
Afterwards  I  found  her  outside  in  the  corridor, 
sitting  on  the  bench.  He  was  going  to  get 
well.  I  cried;  and  she  swore  at  me  till  I 
laughed. 

Big  red  blotches  come  out  on  her  arms  when 
she  is  excited,  and  get  purple  when  she  is  tired. 
If  you  visit  the  hospital,  you  do  not  know  what 
to  think  of  her.  But  if  you  work  there  you 
admire  her,  and  are  proud  when  she  speaks 
to  you  kindly.  It  is  an  illumined  day  if 
by  chance  she  says  to  you,  "Bon  jour,  ma 
crotte." 


103 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Madame  Marthe  Again 

T DON'T  know  at  all  how  it  happens  that  a 
•*•  little  white  mouse  of  a  woman  of  the  people, 
who  has  worked  and  worked  all  her  life,  and 
never  been  cared  for  by  anybody,  should  have 
beautiful  hands.  But  Madame  Marthe  has  beau- 
tiful hands.  Her  hands  are  small  and  quick  and 
absolutely  sure.  They  tremble  when  things  are 
bad,  but  in  spite  of  that  they  are  certain  and  sure. 
They  never  make  a  mistake.  And  they  are  not 
afraid  of  anything. 

Sometimes  my  hands  are  afraid  to  touch  things, 
and  then  I  am  ashamed.  Sometimes  I  pretend 
not  to  see  things  that  are  fallen  on  the  floor,  and 
when  she  picks  them  up,  I  am  so  ashamed. 

If  my  two  hands  were  poisoned  so  that  they 
had  to  be  cut  off,  it  would  not  make  any  difference. 
But  what  would  the  ward  do  if  anything  happened 
to  the  hands  of  Madame  Marthe? 


The  Ward—  All  Souls'  Day 


are    twenty-eight    beds    against    the 
walls  of  the  ward  and  ten  stretcher-beds 
down  the  middle  of  its  long  clear  bright  length. 
Between  the  beds  there  is  no  room  to  push  the 
104 


The  Ward,  All  Souls'  Day 

dressing  cart  about,  it  stands  close  up  against 
the  apparatus  of  dressings. 

There  are  some  things  that  make  stains  on 
the  whiteness  of  the  ward.  When  I  am  away 
from  it,  I  see  those  things  standing  out  against 
the  whiteness. 

There  is  the  blue  of  the  sublime  in  the  glass 
tank  of  the  dressing  cart,  and  there  is  the  green 
of  the  liqueur  de  Labaraque  in  the  big  jar  on  the 
apparatus. 

Sometimes  there  will  be  the  light  blue  of  a 
kepi  or  the  dark  blue  of  a  beret  against  the  wall, 
hung  on  the  knob  at  the  top  of  a  bed,  or  the  red 
of  a  Zouave's  cap. 

There  are  the  black  squares  of  the  slates  over 
beds.  I  can  see,  as  if  from  any  distance,  the 
words  scrawled  in  chalk  on  the  slates:  "Amp.  de 
la  cuisse  gauche  et  de  la  jambe  droite  au  dessoua 
du  genou."  "Amp.  du  bras  droit  a  1'epaule,"  and 
three  "Xs"  for  the  hemorrhages.  "Plaie  pene- 
trante  poumon  gauche,  Op.  20  IX. "  "Brulures 
gaz  enflamme  visage  poitrine  deux  bras."  "Eclat 
d'obus  dans  le  ventre."  "11  eclats  d'obus  cote 
gauche/'  And  on  and  on  like  that,  up  one  side 
of  the  ward  and  down  the  other. 

Besides  the  black  slates  there  are  the  placards, 
pale  yellow,  printed  and  written  over  that  some- 
thing may  be  known  about  the  man  on  the  bed, 

105 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

And  there  are  the  pale  yellow  temperature 
charts,  with  the  dreadful  lines  of  fever  that 
zigzag  up  and  down. 

There  is  exactly  room  between  the  beds  for 
the  night-tables;  the  chairs  have  been  put  all  out 
into  the  corridors  and  heaped  up  against  the  wall 
opposite  the  lift.  Madame  Bayle  is  annoyed 
because  they  are  in  the  way  when  the  linen  comes 
up.  They  are  to  be  sent  to  the  attics  as  soon  as 
any  one  has  time  to  see  to  it.  But  now  no  one 
has  time. 


Hospital,  Thursday,  November   nth 

'TpHE  sparrows  were  all  talking  together  in 
•*•  the  trees  of  the  great  central  court  of  the 
hospital. 

I  met  Madame  Bayle  as  usual  in  the  first  court. 
"We  almost  always  meet  there,  as  I  arrive  and 
she  is  crossing  to  the  store-house  on  the  other  side 
of  the  entrance.  Usually  we  stop  and  stand  a 
minute,  listening  to  the  conversation  of  the 
sparrows. 

Madame  Bayle  is  the  chief  of  the  linen-room 

of  our  pavilion.     She  is  a  dreadful  fat  shining 

shuffling  person,  who  hates  me  because   I   wear 

white  shoes.    Also  because  once  I  made  her  unlock 

106 


Hospital,  Thursday,  November  llth 

the  linen-room  for  me  to  take  out  some  things  I 
thought  were  mine,  and  the  things  were  not 
mine,  and  she  was  angry  with  me.  She  is 
always  trying  to  get  me  into  trouble  to  pay  me 
back.  But  we  both  love  the  birds  in  the  court- 
yard. When  we  meet  in  the  courts  these  days 
we  say  to  one  another,  "Voila  nos  pauvres 
petits  pierrots!"  and  are  friends  for  a  moment. 

This  morning  I  ran  past.  I  was  afraid  if  I 
stopped  she  might  give  me  news  of  my  ward. 

The  buildings  of  the  second  court  have  not 
been  militarised.  It  is  the  pavilion  of  the 
defective  children.  None  of  the  children  were 
out  in  the  court  this  morning.  The  lights  in  their 
rooms  were  still  burning,  it  was  so  dark  a  morn- 
ing; I  could  see  some  of  the  children  making 
up  the  rows  of  little  cots,  and  some  of  them 
clearing  away  the  bowls  and  pitchers  from  the 
long  table.  There  are  some  who  always  sit  with 
their  hands  in  their  laps  and  their  heads  hanging. 
They  have  dreadful  little  faces.  Some  of  the 
children  can  do  lessons  a  little,  and  some  of  them 
seem  quite  bright,  and  play  always  the  same  game, 
hands  around  in  a  ring,  in  a  corner  of  the  refectory. 

The   third   court   is   for  the  wounded   of   our 
service.     The  recreation-room  and  various  offices 
and   kitchens   open   on   to   it,   and   the   windows 
of  the  two  storeys  of  wards  look  over  it. 
107 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  lift  was  down,  and  Cordier  called  to  me; 
but  I  ran  past,  and  up  the  two  flights  of  stairs, 
away  from  him  as  from  Madame  Bayle. 

Cordier  had  been  given  charge  of  the  lift.  He 
is  one  of  the  wounded  in  the  face.  It  is  not  his 
eyes.  It  is  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  They  are 
beginning  to  take  off  some  of  the  bandages.  He 
did  not  mind  .so  much  while  the  bandages  quite 
hid  it.  But  now  he  minds  dreadfully.  This 
morning  I  hated  dreadfully  the  sounds  he  made 
calling  to  me.  They  say  he  will  never  be  able 
to  speak  distinctly  again.  I  was  afraid  he  would 
be  hurt  because  I  ran  by.  But  I  would  have 
known  from  his  eyes  if  what  I  had  dreaded  had 
happened  in  my  ward. 

I  took  off  my  things  in  the  patronne's  bureau, 
and  went  across  the  passage  to  the  door  of  the 
ward  where  I  help  every  day  with  the  surgical 
dressings. 

It  is  always  strange  to  open  the  door  of  the 
ward  when  one  first  comes  on.  So  much  may 
have  happened  in  the  night. 

I  stood  outside  the  door.  The  door  has 
glass  panes  that  are  washed  over  with  white 
paint  so  one  cannot  see  through.  There  are 
places  where  the  paint  has  not  held  at  the 
edges,  and  one  can  stoop  and  look  in. 

I  could  not  see  the  bed  of  Number  29,  from 
108 


Hospital,  Thursday,  November  llth 

there,  but  I  would  know  from  the  look  of  the 
men  in  the  ward. 

As  I  stooped,  the  patronne  came  out  from  the 
chief's  bureau. 

I  heard  her  step  and  turned. 

She  said,  "He  is  very  bad.  If  they  amputate 
he  will  probably  die  of  the  shock.  It  will  have 
to  be  the  left  leg  too,  at  the  thigh.  It  is  you 
who  must  tell  him.  If  they  do  not  do  it  he  will 
die  of  poisoning  certainly/' 

She  stamped  her  foot  at  me  and  said,  "Now 
don't  look  like  that.  You've  got  to  tell  him. 
He  will  take  it  better  from  you."  The  blotches  of 
her  arms  were  very  purple.  She  said,  "They  are 
going  to  do  it  this  morning.  Go  and  tell  him." 
Then  she  went  back  into  the  chief 's  bureau. 

I  went  into  the  ward.  I  still  could  not  see  the 
Number  29  because  of  the  hoop,  like  a  little 
tent,  that  keeps  the  weight  of  the  blankets  from 
his  legs. 

Madame  Marthe,  the  panseuse,  was  not  in  the 
ward.  The  infirmiere,  Madame  Alice,  was  clean- 
ing the  night-tables  down  by  the  other  door. 

Every  one  called,  "Bon jour,  Madame;  bonjour, 
Madame!" 

' l  Bonjour,  les  embusques ! ' ' 

That  is  our  great  joke,  that  they  are  all  em- 
busques. 

109 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

I  went  across  to  Number  29  and  looked  at  him 
over  the  hoop. 

He  was  lying  with  his  eyes  wide  open.  They 
are  like  the  eyes  of  deer  and  oxen.  He  is  a  very 
big  man,  very  ugly,  with  an  old  scar  over  half 
of  his  face.  Such  an  ugly,  funny  face;  the 
shadow  of  death  has  no  right  to  be  upon  such  a 
ridiculous  face.  His  face  was  made  for  making 
people  laugh.  He  always  kept  the  whole  ward 
laughing.  He  used  to  make  me  laugh  in  the  midst 
of  his  horrible  pansements.  No  matter  what  he 
suffered,  he  never  used  to  make  a  sound.  I  almost 
cannot  bear  it  when  they  suffer  silently.  If  they 
scream,  I  really  don 't  care  much.  He  used  to 
try  to  wink  at  me  to  make  me  laugh. 

I  knew  this  about  him,  that  his  people  are  wood- 
cutters in  the  mountains  between  the  valleys  of 
the  Maurienne  and  the  Tarentaise.  I  do  not 
know  why  he  went  away  to  strange  new  countries. 
He  must  be  thirty-five  years  old.  In  wildernesses 
he  heard  of  the  war  three  months  after  it  began. 
He  was  wounded  seven  months  ago,  and  was 
sent  from  hospital  to  hospital,  getting  always 
worse.  He  is  not  the  sort  of  creature  to  be  in  a 
hospital.  He  looks  absurd  in  a  bed.  He  used 
to  tell  me  of  throwing  one's  blanket  over  a  heap 
of  pine  boughs  and  sweet  fern.  He  had  much 
fever,  and  he  would  tell  me  about  the  clear, 
HO 


Hospital,  Thursday,  November  llth 

cool,   perfect   water   of   a   certain   forest  spring. 

I  thought,  standing  there,  how  he  would  be 
wanting  to  drag  himself  into  some  hole  of  rocks 
and  great  tree-trunks,  where  no  one  saw. 

The  clock  was  striking  eight.  They  would  not 
begin  to  operate  before  ten.  He  would  have  to 
think  of  it  for  two  hours,  lying  there.  He  looked 
at  me  very  steadily.  I  thought,  "It  is  I  who 
must  tell  him,  it  is  I  who  must  tell  him.7'  He 
tried  to  wink  at  me,  and  then  he  shut  his  eyes. 
I  thought,  "I  will  wait  a  little." 

I  went  to  the  apparatus  in  the  middle  of  the  ward 
and  began  to  get  things  ready  for  the  panseuse. 

I  tried  to  talk  to  the  men  in  the  beds  near,  the 
9,  Barbet,  whose  fever  had  gone  down  nicely; 
and  10,  the  pepere,  who  has  had  his  right  hand 
amputated;  and  6  and  7  opposite,  who  are  both 
young  and  gay  and  getting  well  fast.  But  I  could 
not  talk. 

He  is  only  one  of  thousands  and  thousands. 
In  the  hospitals,  in  the  dreadful  fields,  along  the 
roads,  they  are  dying. 

Those  of  the  men  who  could  sit  up  and  use 
their  hands  were  folding  compresses. 

Twenty-one  started  a  song  and  some  of  the 
others  took  it  up.  They  sing  softly,  many  of 
them  have  very  nice  voices. 


Ill 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Pere  Mathurin 

N'a  pas  de  chaussons! 
II  en  aura; 

II  n'en  aura  pas. 
Roulons-le,  Pere  Mathurin, 

Roulons-le 
Jusqu'a  demain ! 

I  got  everything  ready  on  the  dressing-table.  I 
kept  all  the  time  looking  at  the  clock.  Every  few 
minutes  I  passed  where  I  could  see  Number 
29.  He  lay  always  with  his  eyes  shut.  Madame 
Alice  had  finished  her  cleaning  and  had  gone  to 
tidy  up.  Madame  Marthe  would  come  back 
and  we  would  have  to  begin  the  dressings. 

Dans  une  brouette 

Pere  Mathurin 
Roulons-le 

Jusqu'a  demain. 

When  I  was  unrolling  the  big  cotton,  I  felt  sure, 
suddenly,  that  29  was  waiting  for  me.  It  was 
odd,  for  I  could  not  see  him  round  the  hoop ;  I  went 
to  him. 

His  eyes  were  open  and  he  tried  to  say  some- 
thing.   His  mouth  was  black  with  fever. 
I  leaned  down  close. 
I  was  thinking, ' '  I  've  got  to  tell  him. ' ' 
But  he  said,  "Don't  worry,  I  know." 
I  stood  there  and  I  did  not  say  anything.     I 
did  not  even  look  at  him.     I  looked  quite  away 


Hospital,  Thursday,  November  llth 

out  of  the  windows  to  the  tree-tops  and  the  blue 
roofs  and  the  wet  close  sky. 

He  lay  perfectly  still,  and  I  just  stood  there. 

The  men  went  on  singing — 

Pere  Mathurin, 

II  en  aura, 
II  n'en  aura  pas 

Madame  Marthe  had  come  in  and  was  going 
about  her  work.  She  did  not  call  me.  It 
was  nice  of  her  not  to  call  me. 

She  is  quick  and  very  clever  and  nervous  and 
bad-tempered.  She  is  rather  horrid  for  me 
usually,  but  to-day  she  has  been  so  nice  that  I 
shall  always  remember. 

She  went  on  with  the  dressings.  I  stood  quite 
silently  by  the  bed  of  29. 

After  a  while  the  chief  came  in  with  the  patronne 
and  all  the  doctors.  They  came  to  Number  29 
Madame  Marthe  came,  and  I  left  her  with  them. 
They  talked  for  a  few  minutes  with  her  and  then 
went  out. 

I  helped  her  get  him  ready,  and  then  Joseph 
came  with  the  stretcher. 

I  went  with  him  down  the  corridor  to  wait  at 
the  door  of  the  operating  room.  They  give  the 
chloroform  usually  at  the  door.  It  seemed 
dreadfully  long. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

I  said,  "You  don't  mind  my  waiting  with  you, 
do  you?  I'd  like  to." 

It  was  such  a  silly  thing  to  say  that  he  tried  to 
laugh  at  me. 

I  thought  they  would  give  him  the  chloroform 
here  at  the  door  of  the  operating  room  and  that 
I  would  run  when  he  was  once  under.  But  they 
threw  open  the  doors,  and  wheeled  the  stretcher 
cart  in,  and  called  to  me  to  help  lift  him  to 
the  table.  And  then  to  help  with  this,  with  that, 
quickly.  And  I  stayed  and"  helped  through  it  all. 
They  thought  he  was  going  to  die  there  on  the 
table.  Afterwards  I  realized  how  horrible  it 
had  been.  When  we  got  back  to  the  ward,  the 
patronne  was  there  with  Madame  Marthe. 

The  patronne  is  a  wonderful  nurse.  If  any  one 
can  get  a  man  through  it,  she  can.  She  is  dread- 
ful. She  screams  from  one  end  of  the  ward  to 
the  other  and  stamps  her  foot,  and  uses  hideous 
words.  But  she  can  storm  a  man  back  into  life. 
And  suddenly  all  the  rage  will  be  a  coaxing,  and 
you  know  that  she  cares  about  it.  "J'ai  cela 
dans  la  peau,"  she  says. 

She  shouted  the  "cinq  lettres"  at  me,  "What 
are  you  staring  at?  Get  on  with  your  work. 
He's  through  that,  and  he's  not  going  to  die," 


114 


Sunday,  December  5th 

Number   14 
Sunday,    December   5th 

'TpHE   mother   of   little   14,    Louis,    has   come 
•*•       to  see  him. 

When  I  came  into  the  ward  this  morning,  I 
was  frightened  to  see  that  there  were  people 
about  the  bed  of  little  Louis. 

I  don't  know  why  we  always  call  him  little 
Louis,  for  he  is  a  great  long  boy  as  he  lies  there 
in  his  bed;  he  must  have  stood  splendidly  tall 
and  strong  before. 

But  it  was  only  that  Madame  Marthe  and 
Madame  Alice  were  standing  there,  talking  with 
a  tall  fine  woman,  who  wore  the  black  shawl  and 
small  black  ribbon  cap  of  the  country  of  Aries. 
The  shawl  and  the  cap  gave  to  the  mother  of 
little  Louis  that  special  dignity  the  peasant 
costume  always  gives,  oddly  touching  in  the 
lonely  city  and  in  this  huge  strange  house  of 
grief. 

She  was  sitting  quietly  by  the  bed  of  little' 
Louis  in  the  corner,  talking  to  him  and  smiling, 
and  talking  to  the  nurses. 

Little  Louis  was  smiling  with  big  tears  rolling 
down  his  cheeks. 

Madame  Alice  had  the  pail  of  dirty  water  on 
"5 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

the  floor  beside  her  and  stood  leaning  on  the  handle 
of  her  mop.  She  is  a  big  well-built  woman, 
handsome  and  sullen.  She  is  sullen  even  when 
she  does  kind  things.  You  would  not  believe 
that  she  was  kind.  She  had  her  skirt  pinned 
up  ta  her  knees  and  wore  the  huge  wooden  sabots 
she  always  puts  on  when  she  scrubs  the  floors. 

Madame  Marthe  stood  cleaning  her  nails  with 
the  pansement  scissors.  She  had  not  yet  put 
on  her  cap  with  the  black  streamers  and  the 
ribbon  of  three  colours.  She  has  great  coils  of 
pale  hair. 

Once  she  said  to  me,  "I  suppose  you  wear  a 
hat  in  the  street?"  I  said,  " Usually. "  And 
she  said,  "I  would  not  wear  a  hat  if  I  went  to  see 
a  king." 

She  and  Madame  Alice  and  the  mother  of  little 
Louis  were  all  laughing  together  over  our  especial 
joke,  that  Louis  will  be  very  wicked  as  soon  as  he 
is  a  little  better,  and  will  make  us  great  trouble 
in  the  ward. 

Louis*  father  died  two  months  ago,  and  Louis 
does  not  know.  He  is  so  ill  that  he  cannot  be 
allowed  to  know.  His  mother  had  to  answer  all 
his  questions  about  home,  and  explain  that  his 
father  had  not  been  able  to  come  because  it  was 
lambing  time.  She  had  to  smile,  and  make 
it  seem  that  everything  was  going  well  in  the 
U6 


Monday,  December  6th 

house  that  little  Louis  would  never  see  again. 
She  had  to  make  it  seem  as  if  the  patronne  had 
not  told  her  that  little  Louis  was  dying. 

He  would  have  liked  to  have  had  her  left  alone 
with  him.  But  she  was  grateful  when  one  or 
another  of  us  found  a  minute  to  come  and  stand 
there  and  smile  also. 


Monday,   December  6th 

TN  the  cold,  rainy,  windy  early  morning  there 
•*•  was  a  regiment  of  infantry,  with  all  its  camp- 
ing things,  battle  things,  marching  across  the 
Place  de  la  Bastille,  going  out. 

Long  blue  coat  and  blue-covered  kepi,  blanket 
rolled  up  in  a  big  wheel,  knapsack  and  cartridge- 
belt,  flask  and  drinking-cup,  bayonet  and  gun. 

And  each  man  had  a  bit  of  mimosa  or  a  few 
violets  or  a  little  tight  hard  winter  rosebud 
buttoned  into  his  coat,  or  stuck  in  his  kepi,  or  in 
the  muzzle  of  his  gun. 

I  think  most  of  one  smart  young  officer, 
who  had  three  roses  in  his  hand.  They  were 
not  the  sad  little  roses  that  the  south  sends  to 
the  winter  streets  of  Paris,  but  great  full  hot- 
house crimson  roses. 

117 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

He  carried  his  roses  in  his  left  hand,  held  a 
little  before  him,  that  nothing  might  touch  them, 
stiffly,  and  looked  straight  ahead  of  him  as  he 
marched. 

A  woman,  standing  beside  me  to  watch  them 
go,  said  to  me,  "They  are  so  young. " 

She  had  a  grey  shawl  over  her  head. 

The  band  passed.  I  do  not  know  what  it  was 
playing. 

The  woman  and  I  stood  together  to  watch  those 
boys  go  away. 


Madame  Alice 
Thursday,    December   pth 

/T*  HESE  last  days  Madame  Alice  has  been  even 
•*•  more  sullen  than  usual.  She  arrives  in  the 
morning,  they  tell  me — she  arrives  at  six  and  I 
am  never  there  to  see — with  a  long  face,  and 
will  say  good  day  to  nobody,  and  grumbles  be- 
cause somebody's  handkerchief,  or  somebody's 
bag  of  rafia  grasses,  or  somebody's  package  of 
letters,  had  fallen  from  his  night-table  to  litter 
her  floor.  She  grumbles  about  "pigs,"  and  bangs 
things. 

118 


Thursday,  December  9th 

When  I  arrive  I  find  her  still  grumbling  and 
banging. 

This  morning  she  was  washing  the  face  of  the 
new  25.  She  washed  his  poor  face  very  gently, 
no  hands  in  the  world  could  have  been  kinder 
or  more  careful  than  hers,  or  more  delicate  of 
touch,  though  they  are  big  and  red,  but  she  was 
grumbling  all  the  time. 

I  said,  "Good  morning/'  and  she  hunched 
one  shoulder. 

Madame  Marthe  came  in  and  said  that  I  had 
better  go  and  fetch  my  boiled  water  before  some- 
body else  emptied  the  boiler. 

When  I  was  coming  back  with  it  from  the  office, 
Madame  Alice  was  standing  by  the  window  at 
the  turn  of  the  passage.  She  had  put  her  pail 
down  on  the  floor,  with  25 's  soap  and  things 
thrown  down  beside  it.  She  stood  with  one 
arm  against  the  window-pane  and  her  face  buried 
in  the  crook  of  her  elbow. 

I  said,  ' '  Oh,  Madame  Alice,  are  you  ill,  Madame 
Alice  1" 

She  hunched  her  shoulder.  I  put  my  big 
pitcher  down  by  her  pail  on  the  floor,  and  patted 
her  shoulder  and  said,  "Please,  oh,  please. " 

She  said,  not  turning  or  raising  her  head, 
"They've  taken  him  to  the  children's  hospital 
— Jean  jean,  my  little  boy,  you  know;  he  has 
119 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

been  very  ill  all  the  week.  A  neighbour 
said,  five  days  ago,  she  would  take  him  to  the 
Clinique,  there  is  no  hour  when  I  can  get  away 
from  here  to  take  him.  It  was  the  neighbour 
who  looked  after  him  the  day  they  sent  him  home 
from  school  because  he  was  sick.  She  is  very 
good,  but  she  has  not  much  time.  She  has  got 
her  work.  She  did  not  know  how  ill  he  was.  I 
told  her,  the  first  day,  to  take  him  to  the  Clinique, 
but  that  day  she  had  no  time.  She  did  not  tell 
me.  She  told  me  that  at  the  Clinique  they  said 
it  was  nothing.  She  told  me  that  every  day. 
For  five  days  she  did  not  take  him.  I  only  saw 
him  in  the  nights,  you  know.  Oh,  it  is  horrible 
when  you  can  only  see  them  at  night/' 

She  stopped  a  minute  and  was  sobbing,  but 
without  making  any  noise.  She  rubbed  the 
tears  out  of  her  eyes  against  the  back  of  her  hand, 
and  went  on.  It  was  odd  to  hear  her  talk  so 
much,  like  that — she  whom  I  only  knew  as  sullen 
and  silent. 

"It  is  nearly  eight  at  night  when  I  get  home/' 
said  she,  "and  I  have  to  leave  soon  after  five  in 
the  morning.  I  was  up  with  him  all  the  nights, 
and  I  was  so  frightened  all  the  days.  Oh,  these 
days  here!" 

She  stood  always  with  her  back  turned,  and 
I  could  only  stand  there,  patting  her  shoulder. 
1 20 


Saturday,  December  llth 

It  was  queer  how  such  big  sobs  made  no  noise  at 
all. 

She  said,  "The  neighbour  got  frightened  yester- 
day, and  took  him  to  the  Clinique,  and  they  said 
it  was  spinal-meningitis,  and  sent  him  then,  at 
once,  to  the  children's  hospital.  When  I  got 
home  he  was  gone.  It  was  night,  they  would  not 
have  let  me  see  him  at  the  hospital.  This  morn- 
ing I  had  to  come  here.  But  I  shall  get  off  at 
noon  and  go  to  him  for  an  hour." 

She  shook  herself  and  jerked  away  from  me. 

"Now  do  you  see?"  she  said,  "now  do  you 
see?" 

And  without  saying  what  it  was  she  meant  she 
took  up  her  pail,  and  25 's  little  bundle  of  things, 
and  went  on  along  the  corridor. 


Saturday,   December    nth 

0-DAY  I  have  been  seeing  the  little  old  cure 
of  Jadis-sur-Marne.  I  found  out,  after  all 
this  time,  where  he  was;  and  went  and  sat 
with  him  for  an  hour,  in  a  pleasant  sunny  room 
of  the  house  where  they  take  care  of  him.  He 
did  not  know  me  at  first,  but  afterwards  he  seemed 
quite  pleased.  I  want  to  tell  this  story  of  him, 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

One  Sunday,  months  and  months  and  ages 
and  ages  and  ages  ago,  Monsieur  le  Cure  of  Jadis- 
sur-Marne,  began  his  discourse  in  a  wrath  right- 
eous indeed.  It  was  the  Sunday  that  nobody 
knew  was  to  be  the  last  Sunday  of  peace. 

"My  dear  brethren/'  began  Monsieur  le  Cure, 
in  his  most  angry  voice.  He  snapped  the  words 
out,  "Mes  chers  freres,"  as  if  each  word  were  a 
little  sharp  stone  shot  out  of  a  sling  to  sting  the 
upturned  faces  of  his  listeners.  "My  dear 
brethren/'  he  began  in  righteous  wrath,  and 
stopped  short. 

He  stood  in  a  bar  of  dust  and  sun  motes,  up  in 
the  old  black  carved  pulpit,  against  the  grey 
stone  pillar.  Then  he  was  a  round,  jolly,  rosy,  busy 
old  little  cure,  who  got  into  a  temper  only  reluc- 
tantly, after  much  goading. 

His  church  was  old  and  beautiful  and  quite 
large.  There  were  twenty-one  people  in  it:  ten 
in  the  chateau  chapel,  opposite  the  pulpit,  Madame 
la  Marquise  and  Mademoiselle  and  two  guests 
in  the  great  red-velvet  chairs,  and  six  of  the 
servants  in  the  benches  behind  them;  old  Ernes- 
tine, the  cure's  bonne,  in  her  round  white  cap, 
erect,  determined  to  stop  awake;  another  white 
cap  or  two,  here  and  there,  and  Pere  Pate's  black 
skull-cap;  two  secularized  sisters  from  the  Ecole 
Libre,  awkward  in  their  black  hats  and  jackets; 

122 


Saturday,  December  llth 

three  little  wriggling  girls  whom  they  had  managed 
to  capture  and  retain  on  the  bench  between  them ; 
some  small  boys  down  by  the  door;  and  Made- 
Ion,  the  twelve-year-old  daughter  of  the  chateau 
gardener,  who  forsook  the  chateau  pew  that  she 
might  sit  nearer  to  Monsieur  le  Cure. 

Madelon  sat  twisted  round  in  her  chair  to  look 
straight  up  at  him  and  adore,  her  hands  in  their 
Sunday  gloves  clasped  intensely  upon  her  blue- 
print lap. 

It  was  cool  in  the  church  after  the  last  day's 
rain,  and  dark,  except  where  bars  of  sunshine 
and  dancing  sun  motes  struck  across,  and  where 
the  altar  candles  were  little  stars. 

One  heard  the  chickens  cackling  in  the  cure's 
garden,  and  the  locusts  shrilling  close  at  the 
windows  in  the  acacia  trees  of  the  cemetery, 
and  the  children  calling  and  laughing  in  the  street. 

''My  dear  brothers, "  began  Monsieur  le  Cure, 
looking  down  into  the  round  blue  eyes  of  Madelon. 

He  clutched  the  edge  of  the  pulpit  in  both 
hands  and  leaned  forward.  It  was  indeed 
tremendously  that  he  was  going  to  scold.  He 
had  a  right  to  scold.  All  night,  in  his  little  brown 
room,  under  the  snores  of  old  Ernestine,  he  had 
been  working  himself  up  to  the  pitch  for  it. 

Next  Sunday  was  the  Fete  of  the  Patronage. 
The  Grand  Vicaire  was  to  come,  all  the  way  from 
123 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Meaux.  Madame  la  Marquise  was  to  present 
a  banner. 

The  children  romped  in  the  street.  The  women 
put  on  hats  and  went  and  stood  and  gossiped  in 
the  market-place.  The  men  went  fishing;  the 
boys  went  fishing. 

Every  Sunday  it  was  the  same  thing. 

In  a  high  temper,  Monsieur  le  Cure  began, 
"My  dear  brothers/'  and  stopped  short. 

He  let  go  of  the  pulpit  edge  and  stood  straight 
and  looked  over  the  heads  of  the  twenty-one  of 
them.  All  the  light  there  was  in  the  deep  old 
church  seemed  to  be  upon  his  face. 

When  he  looked  down  at  his  people,  it  was 
with  a  lovely  shining  of  kindliness.  It  was  as  if, 
suddenly,  he  realized  how  he  loved  them.  He 
loved  them  too  much  to  scold. 

"My  dear  brothers/'  he  said.  All  the  words 
became  little  kind  caresses.  They  were  small 
humble  words,  poor  little  words,  simple,  like 
his  listeners.  They  seemed  to  have  the  touch 
of  many  little  wings  across  the  faces  lifted 
up,  or  to  fall  like  showers  of  blossom  petals. 

One  day,  only  so  little  a  time  afterwards, 
Monsieur  le  Cure  stood  among  a  heap  of 
charred  things  and  broken,  blackened  stones. 

This  is  what  used  to  be  the  pillar  of  the  pulpit, 
and  under  all  that,  at  the  end  there,  must  be 
124 


Saturday,  December  llth 

buried  the  altar,  with  the  cross  and  the  candles 
that  used  to  be  stars.  There  are  things  that  are 
burned,  all  black  and  charred,  and  things  that 
are  twisted.  The  cure  cannot  make  out  what 
they  are.  He  had  not  known  that  there  was 
iron  in  the  church.  Queer  iron  things  are  twisted 
and  tortured.  The  new  bright  window  ne  had 
thought  so  beautiful  is  all  broken,  the  reds  and 
blues  and  yellows  sparkle  among  the  stones. 

There  are  men's  boots.  What  are  men's  boots 
doing  here,  sticking  up  straight  out  of  the  ruins 
of  altars? 

They  are  the  boots  of  the  dead  men.  Those 
things  among  the  stones  are  dead  men.  You 
go  to  see  what  the  boots  are  doing  here,  and  you 
find  that  the  blue-and-red  heaps  are  dead  men. 

How  they  sink  into  the  earth!  They  are  trying 
to  get  back  into  the  earth,  whence  they  came. 
They  came  from  it  and  are  trying  to  get  back,  as 
fast  as  they  can,  into  it. 

This  was  once  a  church.  And  once  upon  a 
time,  ages  and  ages  ago,  or  only  some  days  and 
days  ago,  Monsieur  le  Cure  stood  against  the 
pillar  and  began  to  scold. 

The  women  used  to  stand  and  gossip  in  the 
market-place;  the  children  used  to  romp  in  the 
cobbled  street;  the  men  used  to  go  fishing. 

The  graveyard  about  this  heap  of  stones,  that 
125 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

once  was  a  church,  is  a  strange  place,  full  of 
trampled  straw,  and  of  long  heaps  of  red  and  blue, 
that  end  in  boots.  The  walls  of  the  graveyard 
are  everywhere  pierced  with  holes,  that  often 
those  long  heaps  lie  under.  Monsieur  le  Cure  does 
not  know  why  the  straw  is  there. 

And  so  Monsieur  le  Cure  has  become  a  little 
mad. 

In  one  of  those  days,  it  seems,  he  came  across 
Madelon  sitting  against  a  wall,  quite  dead.  It 
was  in  the  rue  du  Chateau.  Much  of  the  wall 
was  fallen  down,  but  just  where  Madelon  sat 
the  bit  of  it  standing  was  radiant  with  roses. 
Madelon  sat  on  the  grass  against  the  wall,  her 
legs  stuck  straight  out,  her  hands  on  the  grass, 
her  head  hanging  forward,  tangled  hair  over 
her  staring  eyes,  and  her  mouth  wide  open. 

The  cure  says  he  does  not  know  what  it  was 
that  happened  to  Madelon. 

By  the  fire,  in  a  bright  room,  Monsieur  le  Cure 
talked  to  me  of  the  church  that  Sunday  morn- 
ing, and  made  me  see  it;  and  made  me  see,  as 
if  I  stood  there  that  other  day  with  him,  the 
broken  things,  and  black,  twisted  things,  and 
the  things  that  the  earth  was  taking  back.  He 
talked  quietly,  even  of  Madelon,  and  said  he  was 
so  glad  that,  that  last  time,  God  had  not  let  him 
scold. 

126 


Remembering  July  26th,  1914 

The   last  Sunday  of   Peace:    Remem- 
bering July  26th,   1914 

TT7HEN  they  came  back  from  Mass,  up  through 
the  chateau  woods  and  the  park  and  across 
the  gardens,  Anne  Marie  and  Raoul  walked 
together,  and  Anne  Marie  knew  how  happy  she 
was. 

She  had  been  happy  every  day  of  her  eighteen 
years,  but  that  day  she  realized  it. 

Before  she  was  quite  awake  she  had  been  happy 
because  of  birds  and  church  bells  and  sunshine 
and  the  fragrances  of  the  garden.  Snuggled 
down  in  the  pillows  that  smelled  of  rose  petals, 
she  was  happy  because  of  her  new  white  dress 
and  the  poppy  hat.  And  as  she  waked  she  had 
known  that  she  was  happy  apart  from  all  those 
things,  those  lovely  accustomed  things,  and  far, 
far  beyond  them,  because  of  Raoul.  Because 
Raoul  would  be  waking  there,  under  the  same 
roof.  Because  he  would  be  waiting  for  her  when 
she  went  down  the  stairs  in  the  white  dress  and 
poppy  hat. 

He  had  been  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
He  had  had  a  huge  box  of  white  orchids  sent 
out  for  her  from  Paris. 

127 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

He  had  gone  to  Mass  with  her  and  his  mother, 
and  her  mother.  She  had  sat  three  chairs  away 
from  him  in  the  dusk  of  the  chateau  chapel. 

After  Mass  the  two  mothers  walked  ahead 
together,  and  she  and  Raoul  followed  close  behind, 
more  nearly  alone  together  than  they  had  ever 
been  before. 

He  talked  all  the  time;  and  she  dimpled  and 
blushed  and  was  happy,  and  knew  that  she  was 
happy,  but  could  not  say  a  word. 

They  went  slowly  through  the  woods, 
where  there  were  quantities  of  orange  toadstools 
after  the  rain,  and  all  the  birds  were  singing;  and 
along  the  avenues  of  the  park,  and  across  the 
stiff  gardens. 

Anne  Marie's  father  was  out  on  the  terrace. 
He  was  walking  up  and  down  the  terrace  and 
gesturing  very  strangely  all  by  himself  as  he 
walked. 

Across  the  sunny  spaces  of  lawn  and  gravel, 
box  border  and  clipped  yew  and  flowers,  the 
chateau  was  all  sunlit,  its  steep  blue  roofs  and 
old  soft  yellow  walls. 

Anne  Marie's  father  came  down  the  terrace 
steps  to  meet  her  mother  and  Raoul's  mother, 
and,  as  they  stood  together  he  seemed  to  be 
telling  them  something. 

Anne  Marie  thought  how  odd  of  him  to  gesture 
128 


Remembering  July  26th,  1914 

like  that.  Suddenly  a  wonderful  idea  and  daring 
came  to  Anne  Marie.  She  stopped  and  stood 
still  there  in  the  little  gravel  path,  between  the 
box  edges  and  beds  of  roses  and  heliotrope  and 
petunias  that  were  so  sweet  in  the  sunshine. 
She  found  herself  possessed  of  a  great  courage. 
She  would  stand  there,  and  Raoul  would  stand 
there,  and  they  would  be  quiet,  quite  alone  to- 
gether. And  she  would  dare  to  talk  to  him.  She 
would  dare  to  tell  him  things.  There  were  no 
many  things  for  her  to  tell  and  ask.  Everything 
of  life  and  of  loving.  She  thought  the  droning 
of  the  bees  was  a  hot  and  golden  sound.  It 
was  the  greatest,  happiest,  most  wonderful 
moment  of  all  her  life. 

But  Kaoul  said,  "  Shall  we  not  go  on,  Anne 
Marie;  there  is  something  the  matter,  shall  we 
not  go  on  and  see  what  it  is  ? ' ' 

His  mother  had  turned  around  where  sh«  stood 
at  the  top  of  the  steps  and  was  looking  at  Raoul. 

The  grey  stone  flags  of  the  terrace  were  scat- 
tered over  with  all  the  Paris  papers,  that  Anne 
Marie's  father  must  have  thrown  down,  and 
trampled  on  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  terrace. 

He  said  to  Kaoul,  coming  up  the  steps,  "Well, 
this  time  it  is  certain.     Whatever  they  try  to 
show,  every  word  in  the  papers  means  it.    It  will 
be  inside  the  week,  it  is  I  who  tell  you." 
129 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

"Raoul,  Raoul,"  said  Raoul's  mother,  very 
white. 

But  Raoul,  up  the  steps  in  two  bounds,  did  not 
hear  her.  * i  If  only  it  may  be !  How  we've  hoped 
it!  Oh,  sir,  do  you  really  think  it?" 

Anne  Marie's  mother  had  put  her  parasol  and 
Mass  book  down  on  the  broad  stone  balustrade 
of  the  terrace.  She  stooped  over  and  took  up 
one  of  the  papers  that  lay  on  the  flags. 

"It  can't  be,"  she  said,  reading.  She  spread 
the  paper  out  on  the  top  of  the  balustrade  and 
stood  pulling  off  her  gloves  as  she  read.  "It 
can't  be,"  she  said  again,  pulling  off  first  one  soft 
grey  glove  and  then  the  other. 

"It  can't  be,"  said  Raoul's  mother,  always 
looking  at  Raoul. 

Anne  Marie's  father,  beginning  to  pace  the 
terrace  again,  said,  "It  will  be,  it  will  be!" 

Raoul  said,  "It's  got  to  be,"  standing  tery 
straight  and  looking  at  nobody. 

Anne  Marie  thought,  oh  dear,  oh  dear,  now  they 
will  talk  and  talk;  and  she  had  so  wanted  Raoul 
to  stay  with  her  down  in  the  garden. 


Cantine,  Christmas 


Cantine,   Christmas 

A  LL  the  babies  seem  to  me  to  be  blonde  and 
"*•  ^  of  exactly  the  same  size  and  quite  square, 
about  one  year  old,  square,  and  very  adorable. 
I  never  can  remember  which  are  the  boys  and 
which  the  girls. 

The  mothers  come  from,  we  don't  know  where; 
and  are,  we  don't  know  what. 

Last  year  there  was  written  on  a  card  and 
posted  on  the  wall  by  the  door,  a  thing  that  I 
think  rather  beautiful — 

"Toute  femme  enciente,  ou  qui  nourrit  son 
enfant,  peut  venir  tous  les  jours  prendre  ici  ses 
repas  de  midi  et  du  soir,  sans  craindre  aucune 
question. '  * 

They  came,  at  noon  and  at  dusk,  sick,  ugly, 
stupid  things,  twice  a  day  like  that,  from  two 
hundred  and  fifty  to  three  hundred  of  them. 
Bearing  the  children  of  soldiers,  the  children 
that  will  be  France,  they  came  without  need  of 
more  than  making  each  of  them  her  X  in  the 
book  on  the  shelf  by  the  door. 

There  is  not  room  for  more  than  forty-five  at 
a  time  at  the  tables  in  the  room  that  used  to  be 
a  butcher's  shop.  They  had  to  wait  in  turn 
outside  in  the  street. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Outside  in  the  ugly,  forlorn  street  they  waited, 
an  ugly,  forlorn  line,  in  wind  or  rain. 

They  all  seemed  frightened,  not  of  the  things 
that  there  really  were  to  fear,  like  sickness 
and  poverty  and  war,  but  of  just  opening  the 
door  and  coming  in  and  making  their  mark  in 
the  book,  and  finding  places  at  the  tables. 

They  would  have  the  door  always  kept  shut. 
The  steam  of  the  soup  was  thick  and  horrid, 
always,  in  the  room.  I  hate  the  smell  of  the 
poor.  I  hated  those  deformed,  bedraggled,  dulled 
women,  as  I  served  their  soup.  I  hated  them, 
because  they  would  have  the  door  kept  shut. 
But  I  loved  them,  because  their  children  would 
be  France. 

This  year  we  keep  Christmas  for  the  babies. 

It  is  odd  how  beautiful  any  woman  is  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms.  Especially  if  she  has  only  a 
shawl  to  wrap  around  herself  and  the  baby,  where 
it  lies  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm.  The  faded, 
stained,  worn  shawl,  drawn  close  about  her  head, 
falls  in  long  lines  down  over  her  shoulders,  and 
is  gathered  up  in  new  folds  around  the  nestling 
baby,  the  little  soft  shape  of  it,  the  little  head, 
round,  against  her  throat. 

Like  that  each  one  of  the  women  makes  you 
think  of  a  beautiful,  wonderful  thing, 


rja 


Perfectly  Well 


Perfectly  Well 

THE  patronne  was  standing  by  the  bed  of 
little  10. 

I  said,  "It  does  not  go  well,  little  10 1" 

He  said,  "Not  too  well,  madame."  His  poor 
face  was  twitching,  and  his  poor  hands  on  the 
sheet. 

The  patronne  said  to  me,  "He  has  given  us 
a  bad  night,  that  sort  of  a  horror  there. "  She 
stood  with  her  hands  purple  on  her  broad  hips 
and  looked  at  him,  and  said,  "Espece  d'horreur, 
veux-tu  finir  de  nous  en  m " 

He  laughed  and  I  laughed. 

It  is  dreadful,  but  I  can  bear  it  better  like  that. 
The  little  good  sisters  of  other,  different  hospitals, 
the  ladies  of  the  Ked  Cross,  the  calm  and  tender- 
ness and  prayers,  how  strange  it  would  seem. 

Little  10  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  laugh !"  said  the  patronne,  "and 
all  the  trouble  you  make  us!  Wait  till  you  are 
well!"  She  said,  "Attends  que  tu  sois  gueri, 
et  je  te  f trai  un  coup  sur  le  citron. " 

Madame  Marthe  came  with  the  hypodermic 
syringe  and  tubes  and  glasses  in  a  basin.  Her 
hands  were  trembling.  I  love  her  when  her  hands 
tremble. 

133 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  patronne  said  to  me,  "He  is  off  for  another 

little  party  of  billiards/' 

That  meant  another  operation. 

I  said,  ''You  don't  mind,  little  10?" 

He  said,  "Not  too  much,  madame." 

I  said,  "You'll  be  better  to-morrow." 

He  said,  "I'll  be  better  to-morrow." 

"Name  of  God,"  said  the  patronne,  "of  course 

he'll  be  better  to-morrow." 
Next  day,  when  I  tried  not  to  cry  because  his 

bed  was  empty,  she  said  to  me,  "It  was  no  lie: 

he  is  better,  isn't  he?" 

Hospital,   New  Year's   Day,    1916 

TT7HAT  made  me  dreadfully  want  to  cry  was 
that  they  all,  every  one  of  them,  wished 
me  good  health — little  Louis,  who  is  dying,  and 
all  the  rest  of  them. 


The  Apache   Baby — Wednesday, 
January   5th — Can  tine 

'TpHEY  telephoned  from  the  cantine  that  the 

•*•       baby  of  the   girl  Alice  was   dead  at  the 

hospital,  and  that  the  funeral  was  to  be  from 

134 


Wednesday,  January  5th 

there  that  afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  and  that 
Alice  wanted  me  to  come. 

Mademoiselle  Kenee,  the  econome,  who  tele- 
phoned, said  it  was  the  apache  girl  with  the 
ear-rings. 

I  don't  know  why  she  wanted  me  to  come  to  the 
funeral  of  her  baby.  Of  the  nearly  three  hundred 
women  who  came  twice  every  day  to  the  cantine, 
she  had  never  been  especially  my  friend.  Her 
baby  had  been  a  sick  little  thing,  and  I  had 
been  touched  by  her  wild  love  of  it.  It  had  no 
father,  she  told  me.  We  never  ask  questions 
at  the  cantine,  but  she  had  been  pleased  to  tell 
me  that.  She  had  said  she  was  glad,  because, 
so,  it  was  all  her  own.  She  had  rocked  it  as  she 
held  it  wrapped  in  the  folds  of  her  red  shawl, 
and  shaken  her  long  bright  ear-rings,  laughing 
down  at  it,  over  her  bowl  of  soup.  And  now 
it  is  dead. 

Claire  came  to  me.  We  had  just  time,  if 
we  took  a  taxi,  to  get  to  the  hospital,  stopping 
on  the  way  for  some  flowers.  It  was  raining 
more  or  less,  and  very  dark. 

At  the  hospital  they  sent  us  round  to  the  back, 
to  a  sort  of  shed  opening  on  a  street  that  was 
being  built  up,  or  had  been  torn  down,  I  don't 
know  which,  desolate  in  the  rain. 

In  the  room  of  the  shed  there  were  two  families 
135 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

in  black,  two  mothers  with  dingy  crape  veils, 
and  two  dead  babies  in  unpainted  pine  boxes 
that  were  open. 

The  baby  in  the  box  on  the  right  was  quite 
big,  the  size  of  the  most  expensive  doll  one  could 
get  for  a  rich  little  girl  at  Christmas.  There 
was  a  quite  fine  white  tin  wreath  on  the  floor, 
tilted  up  against  the  pine  box.  The  family  of 
the  bigger  baby  was  quite  numerous,  half  a 
dozen  women,  an  old  man,  and  several  children. 
They  all  had  shoes,  and  several  of  the 
women  had  umbrellas,  and  one  of  them  had 
a  hat. 

In  the  smaller  box  was  the  baby  of  Alice,  very, 
very  small  and  pinched  and  blue,  even  more  small 
and  pinched  and  blue  than  when  she  used  to 
bring  it  to  the  cantine.  The  family  of  Alice 
consisted  of  a  small  boy  with  bare  feet  and  no 
hat,  a  small  girl  with  a  queer  coloured  skirt  and 
felt  slippers  and  a  bit  of  black  crape  over  her 
red  hair,  and  a  boy  of  perhaps  seventeen,  also 
in  felt  slippers,  with  his  coat  collar  turned  up 
and  a  muffler  round  his  chin  and  his  cap  dragged 
down  over  his  eyes.  Alice  had  a  hat  and  a  crape 
veil  and  a  black  coat  and  skirt,  and  down-trodden, 
shapeless  shoes  much  too  big  for  her. 

There  was  a  small  bunch  of  violets  in  the  pine 
box  with  the  baby. 

136 


Wednesday,  January  5th 

We  put  our  roses  down  on  the  floor  at  the  foot 
of  the  box. 

Both  babies  had  on  the  little  white  slips  that 
the  hospital  gives. 

The  family  of  the  bigger  baby,  and  the  brother 
and  sister  of  Alice,  stared  at  us. 

The  mother  of  the  bigger  baby  stood  leaning 
against  the  wall,  her  head  against  the  whitewash, 
her  two  hands  over  her  eyes.  She  was  making 
a  queer  little  noise  through  her  teeth.  She 
kept  it  up  all  the  time  we  were  in  the  shed,  a  sort 
of  hissing.  She  never  once  uncovered  her  eyes. 

Alice  was  standing  close,  close  beside  her  baby 
in  the  pine  box,  just  looking  down  at  it.  She 
never  took  her  eyes  from  it.  She  is  a  tall,  straight 
girl,  but  she  was  bent  over,  as  if  she  were  feeble 
and  old.  Her  veil  was  pushed  back  from  her 
face.  It  had  been  wet,  and  the  black  had  run 
over  her  face.  But  it  must  have  been  the  rain, 
for  she  was  not  crying  at  all.  All  the  time  in  the 
shed  she  never  moved  or  cried  at  all. 

Her  little  brother  and  sister  stood  back  as  if 
they  were  afraid  of  her. 

Claire  and  I  waited  near  the  door  of  the  shed. 

For  a  long  time  we  waited  like  that. 

Then  two  croquemorts  came,  in  their  shining 
black  clothes.  One  of  them  had  a  sort  of  hammer 
in  his  hand, 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

They  went  to  the  box  of  the  bigger  baby,  and 
one  of  them  picked  up  the  cover  of  the  box  and 
put  it  on,  and  the  other  began  to  drive  the  nails 
in. 

When  he  drove  the  first  nail  in,  the  woman 
with  her  eyes  covered  so  she  could  not  see  him, 
heard,  and  knew  what  it  was,  and  began  to  shriek. 
With  her  hands  over  her  eyes  she  stood  against 
the  wall  and  shrieked. 

The  croquemort  drove  in  all  the  nails,  and  the 
woman  kept  on  shrieking. 

Then  the  other  croquemort  put  the  tin  wreath 
on  the  lid  of  the  box,  and  then  both  of  them  came 
over  to  our  baby. 

Alice  had  been  just  looking  and  looking  at  her 
baby.  When  the  men  came,  and  one  of  them 
took  up  the  lid  of  the  box  from  the  floor,  and  the 
other  stood  with  his  hammer,  she  gathered  her- 
self up  as  if  she  would  spring  upon  the  men 
who  would  take  her  little  dead  thing  from  her 
and  put  it  away  for  ever.  I  thought  she  would 
fight  over  it,  quite  mad.  The  little  brother  and 
sister  stood  away  from  her,  shivering. 

But  what  she  did  was  to  stoop  and  take  up  our 
roses  from  where  they  lay  on  the  floor,  and  put 
them  into  the  pine  box  with  the  baby.  She  put 
them  all  in  about  the  baby,  covering  it  with  them. 
She  hid  it  away  under  roses  and  then  stood  close, 

138 


Wednesday,  January  5th 

close  to  it,  while  the  croquemort  drove  the  nails 
in,  all  the  nails,  one  by  one. 

Then  one  of  the  croquemorts  took  up  the  box 
of  the  bigger  baby  and  carried  it  out  of  the  shed 
and  put  it,  with  the  tin  wreath  on  the  top  of  it, 
into  a  hearse  that  there  was  waiting  on  the  left 
of  the  door.  And  the  other  croquemort  took 
up  the  box  of  Alice's  baby  and  carried  it  out, 
and  put  it  into  a  hearse  that  was  waiting  on 
the  right  of  the  door. 

The  family  of  the  bigger  baby  followed 
away,  after  the  hearse  and  one  of  the  croque- 
morts, toward  the  depths  of  the  city,  two  of  the 
women  leading  the  baby's  mother,  who  still 
kept  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  but  was  not  shriek- 
ing any  more,  only  sobbing.  I  know  no  more 
of  them  after  that. 

Alice  went  out  of  the  door  alone,  and  turned 
to  the  right,  after  the  hearse  in  which  was  her 
dead  child. 

Our  croquemort  would  have  gone  ahead  of  her, 
but  she  would  not  let  him  pass.  She  would  not 
have  him  between  her  and  her  baby.  She  kept 
close,  close  to  the  hearse,  almost  touching  it,  all 
the  way. 

The  croquemort  walked  behind  her,  and  the 
brothers  and  sister  walked  behind  him,  and  Claire 
and  I  at  the  end  of  it. 

139 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

We  went  through  a  tangle  of  poor  streets, 
narrow  and  crowded.  People  drew  back  out  of 
our  way;  some  of  them  crossed  themselves,  and 
all  of  them  were  silent  for  an  instant  as  the  apache 
baby  passed. 

We  went  through  wide,  forlorn  streets  of  coal 
yards  and  warehouses  and  factories.  The 
carters  and  labourers  in  those  streets  stopped 
to  look  at  us  and  make  the  sign  of  the  Cross, 
for  the  baby  passing. 

We  went  over  the  canal  bridge  and^  the  rail- 
road bridges,  and  along  desolate  streets  of  the 
outskirts,  all  in  the  rain. 

We  went  by  barracks,  where  many  blue  coats, 
going  about  their  duties,  or  standing  idly  about, 
drew  up  to  salute  the  baby  in  its  poor  little  un- 
painted  rough  box. 

At  the  fortifications  many  blue  coats  were 
digging  trenches,  and  they  all  looked  up  and 
stopped  their  work  to  salute  the  baby. 

Twice  we  met  groups  of  blue  coats  marching 
along  the  muddy  empty  roads,  and  both  times 
the  officer  halted  his  men  to  salute  the  apache 
baby  going  by. 

The  bigger  brother  walked  like  a  true  apache, 

slouching  and  slinking  along,  shoulders  hunched 

up,   head  sunk}  down,   face  hidden  between  his 

muffler  and  the  peak  of  his  cap.     The  smaller 

140 


Wednesday,  January  5th 

brother  and  the  sister  slouched  too.  But  Alice 
walked  quite  straight,  her  head  up,  close,  close  to 
her  child. 

So  we  came  to  the  cemetery,  in  at  the  gates, 
and  along  a  street  of  little  marble  houses,  to  a 
field  where  there  were  only  wooden  and  black 
iron  crosses,  and  to  a  hole  that  was  dug  in  the 
red  wet  earth. 

There  was  a  man  waiting  for  us  by  the  hole. 
He  helped  the  croquemort  to  take  the  box  out 
of  the  hearse  and  put  it  in  the  hole. 

Alice  stood  close,  close  to  the  edge,  looking 
down  into  the  grave. 

The  rest  of  us  stood  together  behind  her. 

The  croquemort  gave  her  a  little  spade,  and  told 
her  what  to  do  with  it. 

Then  she  stooped  down  and  dug  up  a  spadeful 
of  earth  and  threw  it  into  the  hole  where  they 
had  put  the  box. 

Each  of  us  went  in  turn  to  give  earth  to  earth, 
And  then  it  was  over. 

Alice  stood  close,  close  to  the  edge  of  the  hole, 
and  looked  and  looked  down  into  it. 

The  croquemort  said  something  to  Alice,  but 
she  did  not  move.  He  then  spoke  to  the  bigger 
brother,  who  shuffled  up  to  Alice  and  tugged  at  her 
sleeve. 

But  still  she  did  not  move. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  smaller  brother  began  to  cry. 

Then  the  sister  went  to  Alice  and  pulled  at  her 
other  sleeve. 

"Take  her  away/7  the  croquemort  said  to  me. 

I  said,  "Dear,  we  must  go." 

Without  looking  at  me,  she  said,  "I — I  stay 
here."  She  stood  close,  close  to  the  hole  and 
looked  at  the  little  pine  box,  and  said  again,  quite 
quietly,  "I  stay  here." 

I  said,  "You  cannot  stay,"  stupidly,  as  if  we 
were  discussing  any  ordinary  coming  or  going. 

Her  little  sister,  pulling  at  her  skirt,  said,  "Say 
then,  ask  thou  the  lady  to  let  thee  go  to  supper 
at  the  cantine." 

"The  cantine  is  for  those  who  have  babies," 
Alice  answered.  Then  she  looked  at  me  for 
the  first  time,  her  great  wild  eyes,  in  her  face 
that  was  stained  and  streaked  where  the  black 
from  the  wet  crape  had  run. 

Gegene's  Croix  de  Guerre,  One 
Thursday 

TTTHEN  Gegene  went  to  the  Invalides  to  receive 
his  Croix  de  Guerre,  in  the  great  Court  of 
Honour,  there  was  no  one  to  go  with  him  except 
Madame  Marthe  and  me. 

142 


One  Thursday 

Gegene  belongs  to  nobody.  He  is  an  "enfant 
de  1'Assistance  Publique."  There  is  nobody 
nearer  to  him  than  the  peasants  he  was  hired  out 
to  work  for,  somewhere  down  in  Brittany. 

I  do  not  know  whether  or  not  they  were  kind  to 
him,  whether  or  not  they  cared  about  his  going  off 
to  war,  or  would  take  interest  in  the  honours  he  has 
won.  We  know  nothing  but  what  the  Assistance 
knows  about  him;  and  he  himself  can  tell  us 
nothing,  for  he  cannot  speak  at  all.  His  wound 
was  in  the  head ;  he  has  been  trepanned 
twice.  He  may  live  a  long  time,  he  is  such 
a  strong  young  boy,  but  he  will  never  be  able 
to  speak.  His  right  side  is  stiffened,  he  cannot 
use  that  hand,  and  the  foot  drags.  Except  for 
that,  and  not  being  able  to  speak,  he  is  quite 
well. 

Nobody  knows  how  much  he  understands  of 
it  all,  or  what  he  thinks  and  feels.  Sometimes 
he  looks  very  sad.  His  boyish  face,  refined  by 
pain,  haunts  me  when  I  am  away  from  the 
hospital.  But  sometimes  he  seems  quite  con- 
tent, happy  to  be  just  well  housed  and  fed  and 
petted  by  us.  We  do  not  know  what  will  be- 
come of  him  when  he  can  no  longer  stay  in  the 
hospital. 

Madame  Marthe  says,  "What  would  you  have? 
he  is  not  the  only  one. ' ' 

143 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

But  she  is  very  kind  to  him,  and  when  she  has 
a  half -day's  leave  she  often  takes  him  out  with 
her,  for  a  little  treat. 

She  and  I  hurried  through  the  dressings  this 
morning  and  had  everything  done,  our  cylinders 
sent  to  the  sterilization,  the  apparatus  in  order,  the 
ward  quite  neat,  in  time  to  go  and  have  lunch, 
the  three  of  us  together,  in  a  big  cafe  of  the  Boule- 
vards. 

Gegene  was  too  excited  to  eat,  and  so  was 
little  Madame  Marthe,  in  her  cap  of  the  "Ville 
de  Paris"  and  her  blue  woollen  shawl.  She  had 
to  leave  it  for  me  to  cut  up  Gegene 's  chicken 
and  pour  his  red  wine  for  him. 

It  rained;  the  crowd  in  the  Place  des  Invalides 
stood  under  dripping  umbrellas. 

In  the  Court  of  Honour  the  arcades  were 
packed  with  wet  people,  and  out  in  the  great 
central  space  there  was  no  shelter  but  umbrellas 
for  the  poor  great  splendid  heroes  like  Gegene. 

There  they  all  stood  together,  those  who  could 
stand,  in  all  the  pride  and  tragedy  of  their  crutches 
and  their  bandages — one  little  blinded  officer 
with  his  head  cocked  sideways  like  a  bird's.  And 
those  who  could  not  stand  had  chairs  and  benches ; 
two  or  three  were  there  on  stretchers. 

There  was  a  group  of  women  in  deep  mourning, 
— some  of  them  with  children — who  had  come 
144 


One  Thursday 

to  receive  the  decorations  of  their  dead  hus- 
bands or  sons. 

There  were  the  great  men  of  the  General  Staff, 
— maybe  the  Minister  of  War,  maybe  the  Presi- 
dent, maybe  the  Generalissimo  himself — with  all 
their  high  officers  around  them,  already  arrived, 
near  the  entrance,  astir  with  preparation. 

Out  in  the  centre  of  the  Court,  grouped  almost 
motionlessly,  were  the  men  who  waited  to  receive 
their  honours. 

We  could  see  our  Gegene,  standing  up  very  tall 
and  straight  among  them. 

" Isn't  he  nice?7'  I  said  to  Madame  Marthe, 
"Isn't  he  nice?" 

But  Madame  Marthe  was  crying — funny  little 
tears,  and  her  nose  very  red.  "Oh!"  she  said, 
"Oh,  what  will  happen  when  that  man  with  the 
gold  braid  comes  to  Gegene?  He  will  speak  to 
Gegene,  and  Gegene  cannot  answer!  He  will 
hold  out  his  hand  to  Gegene,  and  Gegene  will  not 
be  able  to  take  it!" 

We  clutched  each  other  in  panic,  and  then  the 
music  broke  out  into  all  the  splendour  of  the 
Marseillaise. 


145 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Empty   Memories 

OEVENTEEN  months  after  the  day  when  he 
^  went  out  for  the  first  time,  he  was  killed 
beside  his  mitrailleuse. 

He  had  been  home  in  the  meanwhile  twice  on 
leave,  and  there  had  been  nothing  changed.  He 
had  won  many  honours,  and  she  supposed  the 
other  woman  had  been  proud  of  him.  For  her- 
self she  had  seen  him  very  little  and  always 
pleasantly.  She  was  glad  now  that  it  had  been 
only  pleasantly. 

But  it  was  the  day  of  that  first  August,  the  day 
of  his  first  going,  that  one  day,  that  one  hour,  she 
kept  living  again  and  again  through.  It  kept 
being  present  with  her,  curiously. 

He  had  arrived — he  had  telegraphed — about 
four  of  the  afternoon,  she  did  not  know  from 
where.  He  would  have  to  leave  again  before 
five  o'clock.  She  knew,  of  course,  with  whom  he 
had  been.  She  thought,  waiting  for  him,  what 
an  irony  that  it  should  be  like  this,  after  all  the 
bitterness,  he  was  coming  back  to  her,  and  to 
the  old  house  of  his  people,  in  the  street  of  many 
gardens. 

She  thought  it  would  be  awkward  for  them 
both.  What  could  they  say  to  one  another? 

She  wondered  if  it  had  been  terrible  to  him  to 
146 


Empty  Memories 

leave  the  other  woman.  Probably  the  other 
woman  was  beautiful.  All  those  women  were  beau- 
tiful. She  thought,  perhaps  that  other  woman 
loved  him  and  cared  what  happened  to  him. 

Her  two  little  boys  were  playing  in  the  room. 

The  great  closed  rooms,  to  which  she  had 
brought  them  back  hurriedly  from  the  seaside, 
fascinated  them. 

The  bigger  little  one,  in  his  sailor  suit  with  the 
huge  collar  was  saying,  "That's  the  old  witch's 
cave,  Toto,  in  the  snow  mountain." 

The  smaller  one,  with  the  curls  and  the  Russian 
blouse,  said,  "Oh,  Zizi!" 

"Yes;  and,  Toto,  that  big  lump  is  the  giant, 
sleeping." 

"Oh,  Zizi!" 

Then  their  father  came. 

The  little  boys  hung  back  and  stared  at  him; 
they  never  had  known  him  really  well. 

Their  mother  stood  up  and  went  to  meet  him, 
across  the  wide  room.  "You've  had  a  horrid 
journey,"  she  said. 

"I've  been  fifty  hours  in  the  train,"  he  an- 
swered. "Hallo,  small  boys,  there!" 

"Toto,"  said  Zizi,  "he's  going  to  be  a  soldier!" 

"Oh,  Zizi!"  said  Toto. 

The  bigger  boy  came  over  to  his  father.  "I 
know  a  chap,"  he  said,  "it's  the  son  of  a 
147 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

friend  of  mademoiselle's,  whose  father  is  dead  and 
cannot  be  a  soldier." 

"Poor  chap,"  said  his  father. 

His  wife  said,  "Old  Denis  has  got  your  things 
together.  All  the  other  men-servants  are  gone. 
He  has  put  you  something  to  eat  on  the  dining- 
room  table." 

He  said,  "Will  you  come  with  me,  do  you  mind? 
iVe  things  to  say  to  you,  and  there  is  so  little 
time." 

But  when  they  sat  together  at  one  corner  of  the 
big  shining  table,  he  did  not  seem  to  know  what 
to  say.  He  tried  to  eat,  but  it  seemed  as  if  he  could 
not  eat.  He  pushed  the  plate  away  and  leaned 
his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  head  in  his  hands. 

She  thought  she  would  like  to  do  something  for 
him,  but  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Again  she 
said,  "It  must  have  been  dreadful  in  the  train." 

"It  was  wonderful,"  he  said.  Then,  sitting 
still  with  his  face  hidden,  he  went  on:  "We 
were  singing  all  the  time.  Wherever  the  train 
stopped  people  gave  us  flowers;  the  whole  train 
was  full  of  flowers,  you  know.  They  were  most 
of  them  boys  of  the  young  classes  in  the  train. 
We  sang  the  most  absurd  things — nursery  rhymes, 
and  old  cannons,  'Freres  Jacques'  and  'Creur  de 
Lise,'  and  those,  you  know.  What  is  the  one 
about  Tapa  Lapin'?  None  of  us  could  rc- 
148 


Hospital 

member  the  one  about  'Papa  Lapin,'  you  know." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  It  had  always 
annoyed  her,  his  trick  of  saying,  "You  know." 
She  sat  playing  with  something  on  the  table. 

He  said  again,  "The  whole  train  was  full  of 
flowers.  'Papa  Lapin,'  'Papa  Lapin' — how 
irritating,  you  know,  when  one  can't  remember." 

He  sat  up  suddenly  erect,  and  said,  "You'll 
take  the  boys  and  go  down  to  the  old  place  and 
look  after  things.  It  has  always  bored  you,  but 
after  all  it  is  for  Zizi.  And  be  good  to  my 
mother,  will  you,  though  you  don't  like  her — she, 
she  remembers  '70.  And  I've  not  been  of  much 
use  to  her.  I've  not  been  of  much  use  to  you,  nor 
to  any  one. ' '  He  stopped  short. 

It  was  odd  that  suddenly  she,  who  never  had 
thought  much  about  him,  or  felt  things  at  all 
about  him,  should  have  known  this  thing.  She 
had  known  as  she  sat  there  with  him,  alone  in  the 
dining-room,  by  the  untouched  things  on  the 
table,  that  he  never  would  come  back.  He  was 
one  of  those  who  never  come  back. 

Hospital 

FTEN   I   am   sad   because   I    cannot   worry 
enough    about    the    11,    Charles.     I    forget 
him  even  when  I  am  in  the  ward.     His  is  the 
149 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

bed  I  see  first  when  I  look  through  the  holes  of 
the  paint  in  the  glass-topped  door,  opposite, 
away  at  the  far  end  of  the  ward.  There  he 
has  been,  always,  every  day,  through  all  the 
endless  months  since  the  Marne,  propped  up 
against  a  table  board  and  two  pillows  and  a  sheet 
of  black  rubber.  He  breathes  always  more  and 
more  painfully,  and  coughs  always  more  and 
more.  The  fever  lines  on  his  chart  zigzag  up 
and  down,  in  long  dreadful  points.  He  has  be- 
come very  cross  and  exacting.  He  scolds  us  in 
little  feeble  gasps,  with  little  feeble  gestures. 
He  is  twenty-one  years  old,  and  has  very  long 
eyelashes. 

Yesterday  when  I  went  to  say  good-bye  to 
him  at  the  end  of  the  day  he  was  crying  there  in 
his  corner,  quietly,  all  by  himself.  His  long  eye- 
lashes were  all  wet.  I  said,  "Oh,  little  Charles, 
oh,  little  Charles !"  and  kept  saying  it  over  and 
over,  and  had  nothing  else  in  all  the  world  to 
say.  I  patted  his  hands,  that  always  lie 
both  of  them  together  upon  the  strap  which 
is  fastened  round  the  bar  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  by  which  he  is  sometimes  able  to  pull  him- 
self up. 

His  hands  are  white  and  thin  and  crooked,  like 
the  roots  of  things  that  belong  in  the  earth; 
while  I  patted  his  hands  I  was  thinking  that  they 
150 


Hautiquet 

did  not  seem  to  belong  in  the  light  and  air  at  all. 
This  morning  I  thought,  "How  absurd  to  have 
brought  him  a  little  pot  of  cream!"    A  little  pot 
of  cream  for  a  man  who  is  dying. 


Hautiquet 

TTAUTIQUET  has  gone  back  to  the  front.  He 
•*•  •*•  would  not  let  them  tell  me  he  was  going. 
I  never  saw  him  to  say  good-bye.  Last  night,  I 
said,  as  usual,  "Bon  soir,  tout  le  monde,  au 
revoir  a  demain!"  And  Hautiquet  said  with  the 
rest,  "A  demain,  Madame."  He  left  a  little 
package  to  be  given  to  me  after  he  was  gone. 

He  was  one  of  the  older  ones.  He  had  been 
ill  in  the  first  winter  with  rheumatism  and  pleu- 
risy. He  went  back  and  fought  all  summer,  and 
all  through  the  Champagne,  and  till  Christmas. 
Then  he  got  rheumatism  again,  this  time  in  his 
eyes.  He  has  been  nearly  blind  since  then,  here 
in  the  hospital. 

He  was  a  clumsy  peasant  who  never  talked 
much.  And  of  what  he  did  say  I  could  only 
understand  about  half.  I  did  not  know  that  he 
thought  about  me  at  all. 

But  in  the  little  package  he  left  for  me  there  was 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

an  aluminum  heart,  made  out  of  the  aluminum 
from  a  shell.  Madame  Marthe  says  he  had  been 
nearly  all  the  time  working  at  it,  because  he  had 
clumsy  hands  and  could  scarcely  see.  He  had 
had  much  trouble  getting  the  shape  right.  He 
had  cut  my  initials  on  one  side  of  it  and  his  on 
the  other,  crookedly,  because  he  was  so  nearly 
blind. 


Jean  Fernand 

T  TE  had  curly  yellow  hair  and  big  blue  eyes. 
•*•  •*•  He  got  well  terribly  fast.  I  was  wishing  all 
the  time  that  he  would  take  longer  about  it.  He 
was  so  young. 

His  eyes  were  so  blue,  and  round,  and  had  seen 
all  the  horrors  of  the  great  retreat.  The  look  of 
those  things  had  stayed  in  his  round  young  blue 
eyes. 

He  told  me  he  was  afraid  of  going  back,  but 
that  he  was  glad  to  go  because  "tous  les  copains 
sont  la."  He  said  he  couldn't  bear  to  think  of 
them  there,  when  he  was  safe  out  of  it.  "It  is  as 
if  they  were  fighting  for  me,"  he  said,  "and  being 
wounded  for  me,  and  dying." 

I  don't  know  why  I  write  of  him  in  the  past 
tense,  for  I  have  always  the  most  amusing  letters 
152 


Wednesday,  February  9th 

from  him,  from  there.  He  is  near  Verdun.  This 
morning  I  got  from  him  a  little  snapshot  a  copain 
had  made  of  him,  down  on  all-fours  in  the  bottom 
of  his  trench  feeding  a  baby  pig  out  of  a  bottle. 


Wednesday,    February  9th 

Post  Card 

"DOINET  is  very  happy  to-day.  He  has  news 
•*-*  of  his  people  at  last.  Since  he  left  them  in 
the  first  days,  all  through  these  months  and 
months,  it  has  been  as  if  they  had  been  simply 
swept  away  out  of  the  world. 

Everything  that  Boinet  loved  was  swept  away 
by  the  great  black  wave  of  the  war.  Into  what 
depth  of  the  end  of  all  things  all  his  life  has  been 
swept  away!  He  has  been  imagining  and  imagin- 
ing. He  says,  all  the  time  in  the  trenches  he  was 
tortured  by  imagining  things  that  might  have 
happened  to  his  three  little  sisters.  Boinet  is 
twenty-two,  and  the  three  sisters  were  younger 
than  he,  and  beautiful,  he  says.  Odd,  how  one 
speaks  always  in  the  past  tense  of  people  whom 
the  war  has  taken  into  its  dark  spaces.  Boinet 
tells  how  he  loved  his  mother,  as  if  it  were  a  thing 
pi  another  life. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

And  here  is  his  post  card  saying  that  they  are 
all  quite  well,  and  signed  by  every  one  of  them. 

For  nearly  a  year  Boinet  has  been  in  the  hos- 
pital, Number  16.  He  has  troubled  about  his 
horrible  burns  scarcely  at  all,  but  we  have  thought 
he  would  go  mad  torturing  himself  with  imagining 
things  that  might  have  happened  to  his  people. 

By  means  of  an  agency  here,  and  the  Mairie 
at  Tourcoing,  it  was  possible,  at  last,  for  his 
people  to  send  him  a  post  card  of  six  lines. 

It  came  this  morning;  I  have  had  to  read  it 
to  him  about  fifty  times  over. 

It  says  that  they  are  all  very  well,  and  for  him 
to  give  news  of  Pierre,  the  husband  of  his  sister 
Josette,  and  it  is  signed  with  all  their  dear,  dear 
names,  Pere,  Mere,  Josette,  Marie,  Cloton. 

Only  it  was  sad,  for  Boinet  knows  that  the  hus- 
band of  poor  little  Josette,  married  that  last  July 
was  killed  long  ago  in  one  of  the  first  battles  of 
the  war. 


The  New  25 

HE  is  of  Morocco,  brown  and  very  lonely,  and 
always   shivering   with   cold.     He    speaks 
scarcely  any  French.     His  great  dark  eyes  look 
154 


The  New  25 

to  one  with  all  the  sadness  of  the  eyes  of  animals 
that  are  dumb.  Nobody  understands  him.  He 
smiles  up  at  us,  with  his  beautiful  white  teeth  and 
his  big  dumb  eyes,  and  does  not  understand  what 
we  are  saying.  He  makes  me  little  magic-lan- 
terns out  of  orange  rinds,  and  tells  me  long  stories 
about  them,  of  which  I  understand  not  a  word. 

Once  when  I  went  back,  just  for  an  afternoon's 
visit  to  the  hospital,  I  was  wearing  a  bright 
blue  silk  scarf,  and  he  took  it  and  held  it  and  cried 
over  it,  and  would  not  give  it  back  to  me.  I 
cannot  imagine  of  what  it  reminded  him,  why  he 
cried,  or  why  he  loved  it. 

He  has  three  tiny  little  wooden  dolls,  scarcely 
bigger  than  almonds  and  wonderfully  carved, 
that  he  never  will  let  us  touch.  Madame  Marthe 
thinks  that  they  are  strange  gods  of  his;  but  I 
think  they  represent  three  children,  far  away,  in 
lands  where  skies  are  blue,  like  my  scarf. 

He  is  only  slightly  wounded;  very  soon  he 
will  have  to  unwrap  himself  from  my  big  white 
woollen  shawl,  and  go  away  again  to  battles. 

And  I  suppose  I  shall  never  know  anything 
more  about  him. 


155 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


Marketing 

TTE  was  standing  half  turned  away  from  the 
•*•  •*•  others,  the  fat  old  woman  in  the  woollen 
knitted  shawl  and  a  girl  with  a  pretty  brown 
bare  head.  He  was  holding  a  big  market  basket 
very  carefully  in  both  hands.  I  thought 
there  was  something  odd  about  the  careful  way 
he  held  it  and  the  way  he  stood,  his  head  turned 
to  one  side  and  hanging  a  bit. 

The  old  woman  and  the  girl  were  talking  very 
much  about  the  cabbages,  with  the  woman  of  the 
push-cart,  also  old  and  also  wearing  a  knitted 
woollen  shawl. 

In  the  stir  and  noise  of  the  street  market  the 
way  the  tall  broad  young  soldier  stood  so  still 
and  silent  did  seem  odd.  And  he  was  holding 
the  basket  with  such  very  great  care. 

There  was  a  live  white  goose  in  the  basket.  It 
kept  stretching  its  long  neck  up  over  the  rim  of 
the  basket  and  peering  about,  opening  and  shut- 
ting its  yellow  bill  and  hissing  at  people. 

When  the  old  woman  and  the  girl  had  finished 
their  discussion  and  selected  their  cabbage,  they 
pushed  the  cabbage  into  the  market  basket  along 
with  the  goose,  and  all  the  time  the  soldier  held 
the  basket  carefully. 

156 


Hospital 

Then  the  old  woman  put  her  arm  through 
one  of  his  arms,  and  the  girl  put  her  arm 
through  the  other.  As  he  turned  to  go  where 
they  would  take  him,  I  saw  that  he  was  blind; 
the  wound  had  healed,  but  it  was  as  if  his  eyes 
were  closed.  He  very  carefully  let  go  the 
basket  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  hand, 
the  girl's  rather  impatient  touch  on  his  elbow,  he 
made  a  salute  to  where  he  thought  the  woman  of 
the  push-cart  was  standing,  and  then  the  old 
woman  and  the  girl  led  him  away  with  the 
basket. 


Hospital 

^T^HE  wards  of  "our"  floor  get  always  all  the 
•*•  light  there  is.  When  there  is  sunlight  it  all 
comes  in  and  picks  the  dust  motes  up  and  sets 
them  dancing,  down  steep  slants  and  ladders. 
When  there  is  wind  it  sobs  and  sings  along  the 
wards  and  corridors.  The  rain  makes  wide  sweeps 
of  the  great  windows,  and  mists  press  very  close 
against  them  and  get  into  the  wards  and  drift 
there.  When  there  was  snow,  in  these  few  days 
the  rooms  were  all  full  of  its  whiteness.  Almost 
it  was  as  if  its  silence  were  there,  and  its  peace. 


157 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Saturday,    March   5th 

'Tp  HE  night  was  full  of  great  bells  booming,  Ver- 
•*•  dun,  Verdun,  Verdun.  And  yet  there  were 
no  bells. 

I  never  saw  a  darker  morning  come  to  Paris. 
The  darkness  came*  into  the  room,  thick  and  wet 
and  cold. 

I  had  my  breakfast  by  firelight. 

The  crows  are  back  already  in  the  garden;  the 
bare  black  treetops  were  full  of  them  this  dark 
morning,  and  not  one  of  them  stirred  or  made  a 
sound. 

The  lamps  of  the  trams  were  lighted,  and  the 
lamps  of  the  streets  and  quays  and  bridges. 

The  river  is  very  high,  the  trees  of  the  margins 
stand  drowning. 

The  snow  of  these  last  days  has  stayed  on  in 
places,  as  yellow  as  fftg  and  smoke. 

In  the  old  great  beautiful  courtyards  of  the 
hospital  the  snow  is  quite  deep,  on  the  roofs  and 
ledges  of  red  brick  and  grey  stone,  and  on  the  huge 
square  old  cobbles,  and  on  the  black  tracery 
of  trees  and  bushes  and  of  the  vines  along  the 
walls. 

The  buds,  that  were  soft  and  green  last  week, 
are  black  now;  I  was  afraid  to  go  and  touch 
them  and  find  them  frozen  hard. 

153 


Saturday  Night  before  Easter 

The  blackbird  was  singing.  He  has  been  back 
for  nine  days.  It  was  dreadful  in  the  dark  and 
cold  to  hear  him  singing.  How  terrible  all  lovely 
things  are  become ! 


Same  day 

TN  the  half  dark  I  came  home  along  the  canal. 
•*•  In  these  nights,  coming  home  from  the  hos- 
pital, I  have  learned  always  more  and  more 
that  the  canal  is  beautiful,  curving  down  between 
its  old  poor  black  tumbling  houses,  under  its 
black  bridges. 

To-night  the  few  lights  of  the  quays  and  of 
windows  fell  into  the  water  of  the  canal,  just 
odds  and  ends  of  gold. 

I  stopped  and  stood  and  looked. 

It  had  been  a  bad  day  in  my  ward. 

I  thought,  how  beautiful  ugly  things  are  be- 
come! 


Saturday  night  before   Easter 

HE  cool  wet  fresh  smells  of  the  garden,  and  of 
•*•       all  the  gardens  of  the  quarter,  come  in  at  my 
wide  window.     It  is  almost  midnight,  the  rain 

159 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

has  stopped,  and  it  is  not  cold  any  more.  Some- 
times the  crows  talk  together  from  the  top  of  the 
trees  where  their  nests  are,  above  the  old  low 
roofs  my  window  looks  across.  There  has  been 
for  days  now,  in  all  the  rain  and  cold,  a  drift  of 
green  about  the  trees,  the  fine  green  mesh  of  a 
veil  that  seems  to  float,  it  is  so  bright  and  frail, 
about  the  black  wintry  tree-trunks  and  boughs 
and  branches.  The  blackbirds  came  back  last 
week  to  the  garden. 

But  it  is  only  to-night  that  one  can  believe  in 
spring. 

In  the  wet  sky,  over  the  roofs  and  chimneys, 
and  the  treetops,  there  are  some  stars  that  hang 
as  big  and  near  as  lamps.  At  dawn  perhapfc  the 
nightingale  will  be  singing. 


Easter  Day 

ITT   is   wonderful  that   spring   should   come   on 
-•-     Easter  Day. 

One  waked — and  lo,  winter  was  over  and 
passed.  There  was  a  moment,  in  waking,  of  not 
being  able  to  believe  at  all  in  unhappiness. 

The  nightingale  was  singing,  the  sun  was  coming 
up  out  of  the  filmy  leaves  of  the  garden,  the  bells 
pf  all  the  churches  were  pouring  out  Easter, 
100 


Easter  Day 

The  river  was  misty  in  the  early  morning,  under 
the  sunshine,  mauve  and  opal  and  blue.  The 
trees  of  the  quays,  in  their  fragile  leaf,  seemed  to 
drift  in  the  mist  and  sunshine.  I  could  not  tell 
if  the  trees  were  gold  or  green  in  the  Tuileries 
gardens.  They  were  quite  golden  against  the 
long  purple  mass  of  the  Louvre,  and  quite  golden 
up  the  river,  where  there  is  an  especially  bright 
blur  of  them  under  the  purple  towers  and  gable 
of  Notre  Dame. 

The  Halles  were  full  of  country  and  spring. 

My  own  poor  ugly  canal  had  colours  and  lines 
of  spring  about  it;  its  dingy,  dark  old  houses 
were  lifted  into  a  sky  so  lovely  that  they 
seemed  to  have  become  quite  lovely  too,  and 
its  water,  under  the  poor  bridges,  was  full  of 
gold  and  blue  and  purple  and  deep  shining. 

All  the  birds  were  singing  in  the  great  court- 
yards of  the  hospital,  and  all  the  opening  buds 
sang  too,  and  the  green,  green  grass  in  its  close 
bindings  of  stone. 

Cordier  —  his  face  again  bandaged,  for  he 
has  been  worse  of  late  —  tried  to  tell  me  some- 
thing. I  could  make  out,  "Nouveaux,  Verdun, 
chez  vous,  tres  grands  blesses/'  and  then  there 
was  to  open  the  door  upon  the  ward's  new 
tragedies  and  glories. 


161 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Frogs 

OHE,  his  mother,  wished  he  wouldn't  be  so 
^  sweet.  It  was  what  she  had  longed  for  since 
he  was  a  little  boy,  an  indifferent,  cold  little  child, 
and  dreamed  of.  It  made  it  difficult  for  her  not 
to  break  down.  And  how  dreary  that  would  be 
for  him,  who  was  so  glad  to  come  home. 

Always  he  had  been  very  bored  at  home.  He 
never  since  he  was  at  all  grown-up — he  was 
twenty-one — had  stayed  an  hour  more  than  was 
necessary  in  the  old  dark  sad  castle.  Now  he 
had  six  days,  just  six  days,  for  his  own,  to  do  with 
whatever  he  chose,  away  from  those  places  of 
death,  and  it  seemed  that  there  was  nothing  he 
wanted  but  the  old  dull  things  that  always  before 
had  so  bored  him. 

She  had  been  coming  up  from  the  village  in 
the  soft  wet  April  afternoon,  by  the  wide  central 
avenue  of  the  parterres  between  the  little  clipped 
yew  trees,  when  he  came  out  to  the  terrace.  She 
had  an  instant's  sick  trror  of  thinking  he  was 
killed,  and  that  this  was  her  vision  of  him.  But 
he  was  calling  to  her,  and  laughing.  She  had 
stopped,  and  stood  quite  still,  and  he  had  come 
eagerly,  funning  down  the  steps  to  her. 

They  had  six  days  together. 

Often  she  had  thought  of  the  old  strong  castle 
162 


Frogs 

that  it  was  a  place  meant  for  great  things  to  hap- 
pen in,  glories  and  disasters.  Small  things  were 
of  no  matter  in  it.  There  had  been  no  room  bright 
and  light  enough  for  a  little  child  to  be  gay  in. 
Her  baby's  room  had  had  stone  walls  and  a  high 
carved  ceiling  and  windows  four  feet  deep.  If 
ever  he  had  laughed  and  shouted,  his  little  voice 
had  been  lost  among  old  echoes.  How  could 
any  child  not  have  been  afraid  of  the  shadows 
that  trailed  and  lurked  along  the  corridors  and 
upon  the  stairs. 

She  specially  remembered  her  little  son  stand- 
ing with  Miss  on  the  top  of  the  terrace  steps, 
under  the  great  Watch  Tower,  never  running  to 
meet  her  as  she  came  up  through  the  garden,  the 
shadow  of  the  stern  old  house  prisoning  him,  like 
some  dark  spell,  in  his  little  white  sailor  dress. 

Now,  he  had  come  to  meet  her  eagerly,  as  she 
had  so  used  to  wish  he  would. 

In  the  six  days  he  was  all  the  things  to  her 
that  she  had  ever  dreamed  of.  He  was  her  little 
boy  who  needed  her.  He  had  wild  gay  moments, 
when  his  gaiety  swept  her  along,  and  moments 
that  needed  her  comforting. 

Then  it  was  their  last  day  together,  a  softly 
raining  day. 

In  the  morning  they  went  for  a  long  tramp 
through  their  own  woods  and  on  into  the  forest, 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

deeper  and  deeper.  All  the  forest  ways  were  full 
of  wet  blue  hyacinths  and  songs  of  thrushes. 
The  little  rain  made  music  in  the  April  branches, 
and  the  wet  smells  were  as  incense  in  the  forest 
aisles.  "When  they  came  home  he  was  hungry. 
Nothing  would  do  but  that  they  should  go  down 
to  the  village  to  the  Place  de  1'Eglise  and  get  spice 
bread  and  barley  sugar  from  old  Madame 
Champenot,  as  he  had  used  to  do  when  he  was  a 
small  boy  to  whom  his  mother  gave  five  sous  for 
being  good. 

They  must  go  down  the  terrace  steps  and  along 
the  avenue  to  the  Queen's  Bosquet,  where  the  old 
statues  stood  together  dressed  in  ivy,  and  through 
the  little  stern  gate  in  the  rampart  walls,  and 
across  the  moat  by  the  new  bridge,  that  was  so 
old,  to  the  Place  of  the  church. 

Thatched  roofs  and  tiled  roofs  were  touched 
with  spring  wherever  moss  and  lichen  clung  to 
them,  green  and  grey  and  yellow. 

He  had  gone  into  the  little  shop,  and  she 
had  waited  outside,  not  able  to  talk  to  any  one. 

The  great  "Watch  Tower  of  the  castle,  and  the 
low  square  grey  tower  of  the  church,  and  all  the 
crooked  old  tall  black  chimney-pots  seemed  to 
swim  in  the  blue  of  the  sky. 

Waiting  there  she  felt  that  the  coming  of 
(spring  was  sad  almost  past  bearing.  She  thought, 
164 


Frogs 

soon  the  frogs  in  the  castle  moats  would  be 
singing  their  lonesome  song. 

Afterwards  they  went  round  to  the  stables, 
from  which  all  the  horses  were  gone,  and  he  was 
sad  to  think  how  long  he  had  forgotten  his  little 
old  pony,  scarcely  bigger  than  a  dog. 

In  the  afternoon  he  must  go  everywhere  about 
the  house,  to  all  the  old  rooms  and  corridors 
and  stairways,  that  he  never  before  had  known 
he  loved.  She  must  go  with  him,  through  the 
great  dim  attics,  and  up  the  tower  stairs,  and 
out  on  to  the  battlements,  to  the  sunset;  down 
into  the  great  stone-vaulted  kitchens,  and  the 
cellars  that  had  been  dungeons.  They  went 
laughingly  at  first.  But  afterwards  they  did 
not  laugh  any  more.  It  had  come  to  have 
the  sacredness  of  a  pilgrimage,  their  small 
journeying. 

He  talked  quite  gaily  while  they  were  at  dinner 
in  the  long  dining-hall  under  the  minstrel's 
gallery. 

But  when  they  went  to  her  little  study  after- 
wards together,  they  both  were  very  silent. 

There  was  a  fire  burning,  but  all  the  windows 
were  open. 

And  as  they  sat  there,  almost  silently  together, 
they  heard  the  first  frogs  singing  in  the  castle 
moat.  He  laughed,  and  would  have  her  tell  him 

165 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

the  story  of  the  Frog  Princess,  that  he  never  had 
cared  for  her  to  tell  him  when  he  was  a  little  boy. 

She  knew  that  she  would  never  listen  to  the 
frogs  again  without  remembering  that  night. 

She  wondered  if  the  memory  would  become 
an  agony  to  her.  It  seemed  to  her  strange  that, 
caring  so  much,  she  could  not  know. 


Thursday,   April 


T  TNDER  the  walls  of  St.  Germain  des  Pres,  and 
^  the  chestnut  trees  in  their  spring  misty 
leaf  of  amber  and  topaz  and  ruby,  a  vendor  of, 
I  don't  know  what,  had  set  up  a  little  booth  and 
shaded  it  with  an  indigo  blue  bit  of  canvas.  The 
shade  was  deep  purple  under  the  blue  canvas, 
and  brass  and  bronze  and  copper  and  rust-red 
things  had  vague  shapes  in  the  shadow. 

It  was  so  beautiful  that  I  was  happy  for  all  of  a 
minute,  passing  in  the  tram  on  my  way  to  the 
cantine. 


166 


The  Boy  with  Almond  Eyes 


The   Boy  with   Almond   Eyes 


'T^HEY  tell  me  that  when  they  suffer  I  make 

•*•       little  growling  noises  in  my  throat.    They 

laugh  and  say,  "Now  the  little  Madame  is  angry!" 

I  am  angry,  I  am  furious.  I  am  furious  against 
suffering.  I  hate  suffering. 

If  they  scream  I  do  not  mind  so  much,  but 
when  they  suffer  silently,  it  is  terrible. 

Once  the  ward  doctor  thought  I  was  going  to 
cry. 

I  was  holding  the  stump  of  a  boy's  leg  while 
they  dressed  it.  The  leg  had  been  cut  off  at  the 
Front,  hurriedly,  anyhow,  and  the  nerves  left 
exposed. 

The  boy  shuddered  and  quivered  all  over,  and 
would  not  make  a  sound,  and  grew  rigid  with  pain, 
stiff,  and  quite  cold,  and  never  made  a  sound. 

The  doctor,  with  the  probe  in  his  rubber-gloved 
hands,  looked  at  me,  and  said,  "You  are  going 
to  cry!  You  must  not  cry  before  the  wounded, 
it  unnerves  them." 

And  then  I  heard  myself  growling,  with  dread- 
ful big  words  of  the  patronne's  smothered  under 
the  growls. 

And  the  little  boy  laughed  out,  through  every- 
thing, just  like  a  mischievous  bad  little  boy. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


Monday,  May  ist 

'  I^ 0-DAY  is  so  beautiful,  many  people  must  have 
•*•  been  happy  for  a  moment  just  in  waking. 
It  is  so  difficult  not  to  be  happy.  It  is  such  a 
wonderful  thing  to  open  one's  blinds  to  a  sun- 
shiny May  morning.  And  then  there  has  to  be 
the  next  moment. 


May  3rd 

TN  other  years  also  the  spring  was  sad.  There 
•*•  was  always  that  exquisite  lovely  poignant 
sadness  of  spring. 

These  days  are  too  beautiful.  It  seems  as  if 
one  could  not  bear  them. 

I  think  it  is  because  so  much  beauty  makes  one 
want  happiness. 

One  cannot  understand,  in  such  loveliness,  why 
one  is  not  happy. 

Something  is  asked  of  us  that  we  cannot  answer. 

I  remember  Koselyne's  saying,  long  before  there 
was  war,  one  sunset,  down  by  the  sea  in  the 
south — 

"So  much  happiness  would  be  needed  to  fill 
the  beauty  of  the  day." 

168 


Hospital,  Friday,  May  5th 


May  4th 

"VTET  perhaps  in  this  cruel  year  spring  is  less 
*  cruel.  Not  to  be  happy  is,  in  this  year,  the 
inevitable  thing.  One  is  less  lonely  in  each  his 
own  special  lack  of  happiness.  And  each  one  may 
think  he  would  be  happy,  perfectly,  if  only  there 
were  no  war. 


Hospital,   Friday,   May  5th 

'  I A  HEY  have  taken  away  all  my  little  soldiers. 
•*•  I  did  not  know  at  all.  I  came  just  as  usual, 
and  did  not  notice  any  unusual  confusion.  I 
heard  much  noise  as  I  ran  up  the  stairs,  but 
there  is  always  noise  in  the  corridors. 

When  I  got  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  there  was 
the  last  batch  of  them,  in  their  patched  faded 
old  uniforms,  with  their  crutches  and  bandages 
and  their  bundles,  all  packed  into  the  lift  that 
was  just  started  down.  I  could  not  even  see  who 
they  were. 

Some  one  called  "Madame,  oh,  Madame!'' 

I  think  it  was  Barbet,  the  little  4. 

I  turned  to  run  down  the  stairs  to  catch  them 
up  at  the  bottom,  as  they  would  get  out  of  the 

169 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

lift,  but  Madame  Martlie  came  out  of  the  pa- 
tronne's  room,  with  a  huge  jar,  of  I  don't  know 
what,  in  her  arms,  and  called  to  me,  "  Quick,  the 
new  ones  will  be  arriving.  Fetch  our  sheets  from 
Madame  Bayle!" 

Twenty-six  beds  and  ten  stretcher  beds  all 
left  empty. 

Every  one  is  gone,  except  little  Charles  who 
is  dying,  and  14,  whose  arm  has  just  been 
amputated.  I  don't  know  where  they  are 
gone.  Some  to  the  Maison  Blanche  and  some 
to  St.  Maurice,  some  to  their  depots,  some  to 
country  hospitals.  The  patronne  has  had  no  time 
to  tell  me  where  they  are  gone.  When  she  has 
time  she  will  have  forgotten,  and  cannot  trouble 
to  look  up  the  lists  of  them.  Madame  Marthe 
does  not  know.  She  does  not  care.  She  is  used 
to  it. 

But  I — I  am  not  used  to  it.  I  have  loved  them. 
I  had  nursed  them  so  long,  and  done  so  many  odds 
and  ends  of  things  for  them,  silly  things  and 
tragic  things.  I  had  helped  them  to  get  well. 
Eeally  and  truly  I  had  helped  them  to  get  well. 
I  had  been  so  happy  to  have  helped  them.  And 
now  I  do  not  know  what  has  become  of  them. 


170 


Hospital — Arrival,  Saturday,  6th 

Hospital — Arrival,    Saturday,   6th 

'•A HEY  are  very  tired.  They  want  to  be  let 
•*•  alone.  They  do  not  care  what  happens  to 
them,  or  to  the  little  queer  odds  and  ends  of  things 
in  their  bundles. 

They  were  bathed  in  the  admission  room; 
Madame  Marthe  and  Madame  Alice  were  called 
there.  Madame  Madeline  threw  out  their  dirty 
torn  clothes,  and  the  boots  of  those  who  had 
boots,  to  Madame  Bayle  in  the  hall. 

Madame  Bayle  made  Joseph  take  all  that 
away,  and  gave  me  each  man's  own  little  things 
to  put  on  the  night  table  of  his  bed,  his  kepi 
and  his  beret,  if  it  were  not  lost,  a  pipe,  a 
tobacco  pouch,  perhaps  a  big  nickel  watch,  some 
letters,  the  photograph  of  a  girl  or  an  old  woman, 
a  purse  with  a  few  sous  in  it.  Several  of  them 
have  medals,  the  Croix  de  Guerre  and  the  military 
medal,  and  one  had  a  chaplet  that  I  had  to  hide 
under  the  photograph  of  an  old  woman  in  her 
best  bonnet.  "  Number  9,"  says  Madame 
Bayle,  "  Number  16,  Number  8,"  and  dumps  the 
poor  little  handfuls  of  things  into  my  apron. 

"All  your  things  are  here,"  I  say  to  the  men, 
"look,  Monsieur  8,  I  have  put  them  so  on  the 
table.  I  will  move  the  table  to  the  other  side  be- 
cause of  your  arm.  Little  Alpin,  here  is  your 
171 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

beret  hung  on  the  knob  at  the  top  of  the  bed, 
waiting  for  you  to  go  out  into  Paris.  And  you, 
my  little  one,  here  are  your  two  medals,  I  pin 
them  to  the  edge  of  your  chart.  How  proud 
you  must  be!" 

But  he  does  not  care  at  all.  He  is  a  little 
young  child,  of  the  class  16.  He  has  a  round,  boy 
face  and  big,  round,  blue  eyes  like  a  child's.  He 
only  wants  to  lie  with  his  eyes  shut.  He  is  the 
number  3.  His  right  leg  is  amputated,  and  his 
left  foot  is  in  plaster. 

They  are  all  men  from  Verdun,  wounded  eight 
or  fifteen  days  ago,  who  have  been  moved  from 
one  to  another  hospital  of  the  Front.  They  do 
not  want  to  talk  about  it.  They  want  to  just  lie 
still  with  their  eyes  closed — except  the  one  who 
screams,  the  24. 

The  24  screams  and  screams.  He  also  has  had 
a  leg  amputated.  He  is  perhaps  twenty  years 
old.  He  is  a  big  blonde  boy.  He  clutches  the 
bars  of  the  top  of  the  bed  with  his  two  hands,  and 
drags  all  his  rigid  weight  upon  his  hands,  and 
screams,  with  wide-open  eyes  that  stare  and 
stare. 

Also  the  man  wounded  in  the  head,  the  Number 

6,  lies  with  his  eyes  wide  staring  open  and  like 

glass.     He  has  a  colonial  medal  that  I  do  not 

know,  and  the  Croix  de  Guerre.     They  do  not 

172 


The  Chechia,  Monday,  May  15th 

yet  know  if  he  can  speak  or  not.  Madame  Marthe 
told  me  while  she  was  washing  her  hands  at  the 
chariot  that  he  may  live  quite  long. 

She  said,  "The  chief  is  coming  to  see  the 
wounds,  we  must  cut  all  the  dressings.  Take 
your  scissors,  and  begin  to  the  right  of  the  door." 


The  Chechia,   Monday,   May 

T SUPPOSE  because  to-day  the  sunshine  is 
•*•  happy,  Charles,  the  little  11,  who  has  been 
in  his  bed  in  the  corner  since  the  days  of  the 
Marne,  has  taken  a  fancy  to  have  all  his  things 
got  ready  for  him  in  case  he  wants  to  go  out. 
He  says  that  any  day  now  he  may  be  wanting  to 
go  out. 

He  is  of  the  ler  Zouaves,  and  it  is  a  red  cap  he 
must  have,  a  Chechia.  Nobody  knows  what  be- 
came of  his,  it  is  so  long  since  he  had  worn  it.  He 
never  thought  of  it  himself  until  to-day.  But 
to-day  he  thinks  of  nothing  else. 

Number  10  and  Number  12 — new  these  last 
days — say  he  waked  them  up  talking  about  it. 
When  Madame  Marthe  came  on  at  six  o'clock  he 
beckoned  to  her  at  the  door,  and  when  she  came, 
he  whispered — did  she  think  he  might  ask  the 
American  for  it? 

'73 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

He  was  very  red  when  he  asked  me,  and  then 
very  white,  and  his  hands  clasped  and  un- 
clasped. 

Did  I  think  I  could  have  it  to-morrow?  Did 
I  think  I  could  have  it  this  afternoon?  And 
did  I  think  that  possibly,  possibly  I  could  get  a 
tassel  for  it:  a  big  lavender  tassel  that  would 
hang  down  all  at  one  side. 


Monday,   May  29th 

¥  WENT  this  afternoon  to  the  Pre  Catelan,  for 
•*•  the  first  time  in  very  long.  I  went  in  by  the 
gate  near  the  stone  column. 

There  were  quite  a  lot  of  motors  waiting  at  the 
gate ;  it  did  not  look  war  as  it  did  last  year.  Last 
year,  in  May,  the  gates  were  always  almost  shut, 
and  when  people  came  they  had  to  push  through. 
Last  year  the  little  park  was  very  empty.  We 
used  to  wander  as  we  pleased  across  the  lawns 
and  gather  primroses  that  grew  for  nobody.  But 
now  there  were  people  in  the  paths;  especially 
Nounou  with  her  broad  ribbons  and  her  camp- 
stool,  and  the  baby,  and  Monsieur  TAbbe,  playing 
blind  man's  buff  with  the  bigger  children. 

Green  lawns,  bright  as  live  green  fire,  the  trees 

174 


Monday,  May  29th 

all  in  delicate  misty  leaf,  light  greens  and  dark 
greens  and  copper  and  amber  and  gold,  filmy 
and  drifting,  as  veils,  about  the  trunks  and 
boughs  and  branches. 

The  flower-beds  were  full  of  hyacinths  and 
forget-me-nots. 

Never,  never,  surely  has  spring  meant  so  much 
as  in  these  two  years  of  war. 

All  the  birds  of  spring  were  singing.  All  of 
them.  The  grass  of  the  lawns  was  full  of  little 
starry  pink  and  white  daisies. 

By  the  little  watercourse  there  was  a  bank  of 
blue  flowers.  They  were  reflected  in  the  water, 
very,  very  blue.  I  do  not  know  what  they  were. 
They  were  of  a  much  more  intense  blue  than  the 
myosotis.  I  did  not  go  to  see  what  they  were;  I 
thought  they  might  be  the  blue  flowers  of  happi- 
ness, and  that  it  was  better  I  did  not  go  too  near. 

The  hideous,  huge  restaurant  is  a  hospital. 
The  paths  and  the  road  to  it,  and  the  lawns  and 
garden  beds  about  it  are  corded  off  that  people 
may  not  go  and  look.  From  the  distance,  you 
see  vague,  white  shapes  of  things,  and  figures  all 
in  white,  moving  about  inside  the  great  plate- 
glass  windows! 

What  wonderful  people  used  to  sit  at  the  tables, 
in  those  windows! 

What  is  there  now  on  the  raised  platform  of  the 

175 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

music?      The   music   used   to   be    so    gay.      Did 
people  ever  really  dance  there? 

How  queer  pain  and  grief  seem  to  be,  in  this 
place  that  they  have  taken  over.  Was  this  really 
ever  a  place  so  gay  and  brilliant,  that  no  other 
place  of  the  world  symbolized  quite  as  fragile  a 
thing? 


Thursday,  June   ist 

\TERDUN,  Verdun,  Verdun.  The  great  bells, 
that  are  not  really  bells,  are  still  ringing  and 
ringing.  One  hears  them  ringing  through  the 
streets  of  Paris,  up  and  down,  all  night  long.  Out 
in  the  country  they  must  be  ringing,  and  ringing 
across  all  the  fields  and  forests,  and  through  the 
hills,  and  along  all  the  roads  and  rivers,  and  to  all 
the  edges  of  the  land. 

Even  if  they  were  dirges,  tolling,  they  would 
yet  always  have  been  triumphant  bells. 


The  Queen:    To  her 

A  BEAUTIFUL  thing  has  happened  in  a  beauti- 
•*  *•  ful  hospital.  Going  to  that  hospital  from 
mine,  what  seems  most  beautiful  about  it,  and 

176 


The  Queen 

very  strange,  is  its  peace.  It  is  so  quiet.  The 
little  gentle  nuns  move  softly  and  have  sweet 
low  voices.  The  women  who  work  there  are  all  of 
them  women  who  choose  to  serve,  and  they  serve 
lovingly.  One  feels  there  quietness  and  sym- 
pathy, and  something  that  I  think  must  be  just 
the  love  of  God.  My  hospital  seems  like  a 
nightmare  in  that  beautiful  place. 

One  day  there  came  to  visit  that  beautiful 
hospital  a  very  gentle  lady,  than  whose  story 
there  is  none  more  tragic  in  the  whole  world. 

She  is  a  queen  who  lives  in  exile.  She  has  known 
every  sorrow  that  a  woman  can  know,  and  that 
a  queen  can  know,  every  one.  And  she  lives, 
with  the  memory  of  her  sorrows,  in  exile. 

She  may  come  to  France  at  times  for  visits  of 
which  few  people  are  aware;  and  those  are  the 
times  that  are  most  nearly  happy  for  her,  for  she 
loves  France,  and  the  France  that  knows  her,  that 
is  so  truly  her  own,  loves  her  greatly. 

The  little  soldiers  of  France  might  have  been 
her  soldiers.  If  they  realized,  how  they  would 
love  to  be  her  soldiers!  What  would  it  not  mean 
to  them  to  have  such  a  queen  to  fight  for  ? 

The  soldiers  in  the  beautiful  hospital  were  not 
told  at  first  that  it  was  a  queen  who  came  that 
day  to  see  them.  They  only  knew  that  it  was  a 
very  lovely  lady.  She  understood  just  how  to 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

talk  to  them,  just  how  to  look  at  them.  They 
were  men  who  had  given  everything  they  had 
to  give  for  the  country  that  she  loved,  that 
was  indeed  her  country,  and  she  loved  them, 
every  one  of  them,  and  her  love  for  them  was  in 
her  eyes  and  on  her  lips  and  in  her  voice.  She  had 
known  so  much  of  suffering  that  she  could  take  the 
suffering  of  each  man  for  her  own  to  bear  with  him. 

There  was  a  man  who  was  dying.  He  was  not 
a  beautiful  young  boy,  but  one  of  those  older 
little  soldiers  who  touch  one's  heart  so.  The 
thin,  worn,  stooping  little  soldier  type  who  has 
his  wife  and  the  children  and  the  old  people  to 
be  anxious  about  while  he  serves  his  France. 
The  bearded,  anxious-eyed  little  soldier  type 
who  knows  just  what  it  all  means,  and  who  has 
the  flame  of  the  spirit  of  France  shining  in  his 
always  rather  haggard  eyes. 

This  little  soldier  was  dying;  there  was  no  hope 
at  all.  He  knew  quite  well.  His  wife  and 
babies  were  far  away  and  could  not  come  to 
him.  And  he  was  glad  of  that,  he  wanted  his 
wife  to  be  spared  all  she  might  be  spared  of  pain. 
He  was  glad  she  would  not  have  to  remember 
his  suffering  so.  The  nurse  had  promised  to 
tell  his  wife  always  that  he  had  not  suffered  at  all. 
His  nurse  had  promised  him  that  she  would 
always  keep  sight  of  his  wife  and  the  babies,  and 


The  Queen 

be  sure  that  no  harm  came  to  the  old  people. 
She  had  comforted  him  in  everything.  And  she, 
and  the  good  little  sisters,  had  so  beautiful  a 
faith  in  God,  that  he  was  sure  they  knew,  and 
that  it  all  would  be  quite  well. 

He  had  won  his  Croix  de  Guerre  and  Medaille 
Militaire;  they  had  been  sent,  but  the  officer 
had  not  yet  come  from  the  President  of  the  Repub- 
lic to  give  them  to  him.  It  seemed  very  sad  to 
the  people  of  the  hospital  that  his  medals  should 
not  be  given  to  him  before  he  died.  His  nurse 
had  been  very  troubled  about  it,  and  the  chief 
doctor  also.  They  had  sent  messages  twice  to 
the  authorities,  but  no  one  had  come. 

Then,  when  the  queen  was  there  the  nurse 
who  herself  was  a  great  lady  of  the  world,  thought 
of  a  beautiful  thing  and  asked  the  chief  doctor 
if  it  could  not  be.  That  the  queen  should  give  his 
decorations  to  the  man  who  was  dying,  and  that 
they  should  tell  him,  and  all  the  others,  that  it 
was  the  queen.  She  knew  what  pleasure  it 
would  give  him.  She  knew  it  would  be  like  a 
dream  to  him,  a  lovely  dream  thing  to  happen  to 
him,  just  at  the  end.  Of  course,  it  would  not  be 
official,  but  what  did  that  signify — now?  The 
man  was  dying. 

The  doctor  and  the  queen  spoke  together  for  a 
minute. 

179 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  queen  had  never  cried  for  her  own  sorrows, 
but  she  had  tears  in  her  eyes  then,  and  did  not 
mind  that  every  one  saw. 

When  all  of  those  people  of  the  hospital  who 
could  come  were  assembled  in  the  ward,  the  hos- 
pital staff,  and  all  of  the  wounded  who  could 
walk  or  be  carried,  the  doctor  told  them,  very 
simply,  his  voice  a  little  hoarse,  that  it  was  the 

Queen  of who  was  there  among  them,  and 

that  she  was  going  to  give  his  decorations  to 
their  comrade.  A  thrill  passed  through  all  the 
ward  as  the  doctor's  voice  dropped  into  silence. 
No  one  spoke  at  all. 

The  little  soldier  who  was  to  be  so  honoured 
turned  his  head  and  looked  at  the  queen. 

She  was  crying  very  much,  but  she  smiled,  and 
said  to  him,  "You  see,  my  little  one,  I  cry  be- 
cause it  is  so  great  an  honour  for  me  that  I  may 
give  his  decorations  to  a  soldier  of  France. "  She 
would  not  have  him  know  that  she  cried  be- 
cause he  was  dying.  She  smiled  down  at  him. 

Then  she  took  his  papers  from  the  doctor 
and  read  his  citations  out  aloud,  quite  steadily, 
to  all  the  ward. 

She  bent  down  over  him  and  pinned  the  two 
medals  on  his  poor  nightshirt.  "The  honour  is 
all  mine,"  she  said. 

And  then  she  took  his  head  between  her  hands, 
180 


The  Queen 

as  if  he  had  been  a  child — as  if  he  had  been  her 
own  son  who  was  so  cruelly  dead — and  kissed 
his  forehead. 

They  say  that  royalty  must  go  away  out  of 
the  world.  But  how  can  any  one  say  that  who 
knows  beautiful  things?  There  is  something  so 
beautiful  that  belongs  only  to  kingship,  something 
of  ideal  and  dream.  It  was  there,  in  the  hos- 
pital ward,  when  the  great  lady  in  the  plain, 
almost  poor,  dress,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  was 
honoured  by  the  honour  she  might  do  a  little 
soldier.  Only  a  queen  could  have  made  it  all 
seem  so  beautiful.  Only  a  queen  could  have  kissed 
a  little  soldier  of  the  people,  who  really  were 
her  people,  so  quite  as  if  he  had  been  her  child,  or 
have  made  of  kneeling  by  his  bed  for  a  minute 
quite  so  simple  and  proud  and  symbolic  a  thing. 

The  little  soldier  never  said  one  word.  His  eyes 
followed  her  with  the  worship  that  is  quite  differ- 
ent from  any  other  worship,  the  worship  that 
can  be  given  only  to  a  queen. 

Afterwards  he  said  to  his  nurse — it  was  the 
only  time  he  spoke,  for  in  that  night  he  died — 
"You  will  tell  my  wife,  will  you  not?  You  will 
tell  her  all  about  my  queen?" 


181 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


Questions   and  Answers 

'  fl  *  HE  wounds  in  the  road  are  kept  filled  up.  As 
-*•  the  road  is  wounded,  every  day,  they  fill  the 
wounds  up  and  smooth  them  over.  Because,  in 
ease  of  an  advance  or  a  retreat,  the  way  must  be 
kept  open  and  clear. 

This  I  have  been  told,  for  I  cannot  go  to  see. 

They  tell  me  how  the  work  of  the  fields  goes 
on  around  the  wounds  of  the  fields.  There  is  no 
need,  of  course,  to  tend  the  wounds  of  the  fields. 
Sometimes  in  the  ploughing  the  blade  of  the 
plough  strikes  against  an  unexploded  shell  that 
the  grass  had  hidden,  and  the  old  horse  is  killed, 
or  the  yoke  of  oxen,  and  the  old  peasant. 

Sometimes  the  soldiers,  back  at  repose,  help 
with  the  work  of  the  fields. 

I  ask,  are  the  larks  singing  over  the  fields? 
But,  of  course.  And  are  there  magpies  in  the  road  ? 
Why,  yes. 

When  a  shell  bursts  in  the  fields,  they  say,  it  is 
scarcely  frightful  at  all,  the  spaces  are  so  wide. 
It  seems  far  from  you,  and  you  think  of  it  as  just 
something  of  the  world's — scream  of  wind,  light- 
ning, that  strikes  perhaps;  not  an  enemy  thing 
at  all. 

Do  the  bees  drone  on  just  the  same  in  the 
182 


The  Dead  Town 

clover?     They  say  they  are  absurd  things  that 
I  want  to  know. 

But  I  think  of  the  clover  growing  tall  and  sweet 
about  the  little  tilted  wooden  crosses,  of  which 
the  fields  are  so  full;  and  of  the  bees  droning 
their  golden,  sleepy  song,  there,  like  that. 


The   Dead  Town 

/T*  HEY  say  that  the  grass  is  growing  everywhere 
•*•  in  the  empty  streets  of  the  town.  The 
streets  are  kept  cleared  of  the  ruins  of  the  houses 
that  fall  into  them,  and  their  wounds  are  carefully 
healed,  like  the  wounds  of  the  road.  The  stones 
of  the  broken  houses  are  piled  up  quite  neatly  at 
the  edge  of  the  streets.  There  is  no  glass  left  of 
the  windows  of  those  houses  that  still  stand — 
except  for  that — unhurt.  Many  of  the  houses 
are  terribly  hurt,  the  roof  gone,  great  gaps  in  the 
walls. 

I  ask,  do  you  see  the  paper  of  the  walls  in  broken 
rooms?  Are  there  pretty  little  wall-papers,  with 
flowers  and  ribbons,  that  you  see  through  the 
wounds  of  the  houses?  Are  there  left  rags  of 
curtain,  tattered  and  rain-washed  and  faded,  in 
some  of  the  windows?  Do  you  see  people's  little 
183 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

loved  things,  abandoned  in  the  broken  ruins,  be- 
trayed to  strangers? 

They  tell  me  that  vines  are  grown  across  to  bar 
the  doors  so  long  unopened,  or  the  doors  left  so 
long  open,  sagging;  and  I  suppose  that  there  are 
cobwebs  also. 

They  say  that  here  and  there  you  see  a  sign 
scrawled  up  over  a  door,  or  over  the  break  in  a 
wall,  that  says,  "En  cas  de  bombardement  il  y  a 
ici  une  cave." 

I  ask,  is  the  signboard  of  Monsieur  Pigot's,  the 
pastrycook,  still  hung  out  over  his  door? 


The   Grass   Road 

YOU  can  keep  on  for  a  short  distance  beyond 
the  town,  on  the  other  side  of  it.  The  great 
road  leads  on  between  its  poplar  trees,  white 
and  straight.  Here  it  has  been  less  wounded 
because  the  hills  shelter  it.  The  trees  have  not 
been  hurt  here ;  they  lift  their  grey-green  plumes, 
light  and  proud  as  ever,  above  the  road. 

I  remember  to  ask :  Is  there  much  passing  along 
the  road,  that  terrible  grey  passing  of  war 
things?  Do  you  see  many  blue  troops  along 
the  road?  They  say:  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  as  far 
as  the  old  octroi. 

184 


Fifteen  Days 

"What  is  it  like  now  at  the  octroi  under  the 
edge  of  the  hill? 

Just  beyond  the  octroi  there  is  a  barbed- 
wire  entanglement  across  the  road.  No  one 
can  go  farther.  There  are  soldiers  in  the  yellow 
little  house  of  the  octroi.  The  sentinel  comes 
out. 

They  tell  me  that  the  road  beyond  the  barbed- 
wire  entanglement  leads  straight  on,  between 
the  poplar  trees,  as  far  as  any  one  can  see,  deep 
grown  in  grass.  Nearly  two  years  deep  in  grass. 
It  is  nearly  two  years  since  any  one,  yes,  any  one, 
has  gone  a  step  along  that  road. 

They  tell  me  a  thing  the  sentinel  said,  that 
is  a  hideous  thing.  I  do  not  know  why  I  want 
to  tell  it.  I  know  just  how  he  said  it,  with 
bitterness  and  irony,  but  as  if  it  were  a  thing  of 
small  matter  that  would  be  soon  arranged  for. 

He  said,  "  Just  along  there,  about  half-way  as 
far  as  we  can  see,  begins  Germany." 


Fifteen   Days 

UST  before  the  end  of  the  world  they  were 

together  at  the  chateau. 
They  thought  it  was  to  have  been  for  the  last 

185 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

time.  There  had  been  many  things  they  needed 
to  talk  over  and  arrange  together,  and  why  not 
quietly.  They  were  "done  with  passion,  pain, 
and  anger.''  They  thought  to  bid  one  another 
good-bye  when  everything  was  arranged,  wishing 
one  another  well,  and  go  their  different  ways. 

There  were  no  children,  they  were  hurting  no 
one.  They  had  been  hurting  one  another  too 
long,  for  ten  years — they  were  both  still  so  young 
that  it  seemed  to  them  half  a  lifetime — and  now 
they  thought  they  would  never  hurt  one  another 
any  more.  It  was  an  immense  relief  to  each  of 
them  to  feel  that  it  was  over,  quite  over,  dead 
and  done  with.  But  it  was  not  over. 

From  the  first  moment  of  talk  of  war  his  one 
idea  was  to  get  himself  taken  for  the  army. 
When  he  was  a  boy,  a  fall  in  hunting  had  hurt 
his  spine  seriously;  he  had  never  been  able  to 
do  his  military  service.  The  trouble  had  grown 
worse,  and  now,  with  his  crooked  back  and  halt- 
ing step,  there  was  nothing,  exactly  nothing,  it 
seemed,  he  could  do. 

She  stayed  with  him  through  those  days  of  the 
utmost  nervous  tension.  How  could  she  leave 
him  then?  She  understood  him  so  well  in  his 
moods,  now  in  despair,  now  hopeful,  now  in 
despair  again;  disgraced,  he  would  say,  worth- 
less, ashamed  before  his  peasants,  before  the 
186 


Fifteen  Days 

castle  servants,  who  were,  all  of  them,  going  to 
join  the  colours;  angry  against  everything,  he 
had  such  need  of  her  to  tell  it  all  to.  He  ex- 
hausted himself  with  hurried,  futile  journeys 
hither  and  yonder  to  find  some  one  whose  influence 
might  get  him  '  'taken. "  He  spent  his  nights 
walking  the  wide  floors  up  and  down,  and  writing 
letters  to  people  he  thought  might ' '  do  something. ' ' 
But  none  of  it  was  of  any  use.  He  worried  himself 
ill.  He  fainted  twice  in  one  day,  the  day  the  papers 
told  of  the  taking  of  the  first  German  flag.  It 
was  a  flaming  white  hot  day  in  their  country  of 
the  Aisne. 

There  were  days  of  the  passing  through  of  their 
own  troops.  For  days  the  valley  was  one  deep, 
endlessly  drawn-out  trail  of  dust,  from  which 
came  unceasingly  the  turmoil  of  hoofs  and  wheels 
and  men's  shouting,  the  horns  and  rush  of  motors, 
bugle-calls,  the  hot  beating  of  drums. 

Night  after  night  the  village  took  in  the  men 
billeted  upon  it,  lodged  them  somehow,  fed  them 
somehow.  The  chateau  received  the  officers, 
and  did  what  it  could  for  them. 

Those  were  days  of  great  enthusiasm.  Trains 
passed  full  of  flowers,  of  men  laughing  and  sing- 
ing. Trainloads  of  great  dust-coloured  cannon 
passed,  covered  with  flowers. 

Claire   started   a   canteen   at   the   station,   the 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

little  country  station  by  the  river,  in  the  fields 
of  August  wheat  and  poppies. 

Those  were  exalted,  wonderful  days  for  her. 
She  knew  how  agonizing  they  were  for  Remy, 
and  she  felt  about  him  very  tenderly. 

She  was  a  beautiful,  strong  creature,  her  beauty 
and  strength  for  years  now  had  annoyed  and 
been  a  grievance  to  him.  But  now  he  seemed 
to  have  need  of  her  strength  and  quietness. 
She  pitied  him  for  what  she  meant  to  him  in 
those  days. 

But  when  bad  news  came,  everything  changed 
for  him. 

There  were  so  many  things  for  him  to  do.  He 
was  maire  of  the  village — the  village  counted  on 
him,  he  was  not  useless  any  more.  He  had  been 
really  ill  with  grieving,  but  now  that  he  was 
of  use,  he  was  as  well  as  she  had  ever  seen  him 
before.  All  his  small  nervous  ways  fell  from 
him;  she  did  not  understand  him  any  more  than 
if  he  had  been  a  child  grown  up  suddenly  beyond 
her;  but  she  was  immensely  pleased  with  him. 
She  was  so  glad  to  be  able  to  feel  him  stronger 
than  she.  It  was  very  good  to  be  able  to  turn  to 
him  now  for  help  and  comfort. 

Her  canteen  at  the  station  served  trains  that 
were  full  of  wounded.  Some  of  the  wounded 
were  so  bad  that  they  had  to  be  taken  out  of  the 
1 88 


Fifteen  Days 

trains.  She  got  a  hospital  arranged  as  well  as 
she  could  in  the  chateau.  For  days  it  was  so  full 
that  the  wounded  and  dying  lay  on  beds  of  straw 
on  the  floor  of  the  great  salons,  not  a  scrap  of 
linen  in  the  chateau  but  was  used  for  dressings 
and  bandages. 

Then  the  refugees  from  the  villages  of  the 
north  and  the  east  began  to  pour  through,  telling 
of  ghastly  things.  And  then  came  the  troops 
in  retreat. 

The  hospital  had  to  be  evacuated  in  dreadful 
haste.  It  was  more  dreadful  than  anything  she 
had  ever  imagined.  There  was  a  day  when  the 
old  town-crier  went  through  the  streets,  beating 
a  drum,  and  calling  out  the  warning  to  evacuate. 
All  the  people  who  could  do  so  fled.  They 
fled,  and  left  everything  they  possessed  behind 
them. 

It  was  said  that  when  the  troops  were  passed, 
the  bridge  at  the  bend  of  the  river  must  be  blown 
up  after  them,  and  so  the  village  would  be  cut  off 
and  left  to  the  enemy. 

Kemy  made  the  villagers  give  him  the  keys  of 
their  houses,  and  he  put  up  a  notice  in  the  Grand* 
Place  that  any  one  wishing  to  enter  the  houses 
must  apply  for  the  keys  to  the  chateau;  he  wrote 
the  notice  in  German. 

Claire  was  proud  that  he  did  not  suggest  that 

189 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

she  should  go  away,  that  he  took  for  granted  she 
was  at  least  as  strong  as  he. 

The  explosion  of  the  blowing  up  of  the  old 
bridge  was  like  the  final  note  of  all  the  things 
that  used  to  be.  The  dust  of  the  valley  settled 
down  for  an  hour,  and  things  seemed  strangely 
quiet. 

All  the  people  of  the  village  who  had  not 
been  able  to  get  away  came  to  the  chateau, 
the  very  old  people  and  the  sick,  and  some  women 
with  babies,  begging  shelter  for  the  night. 

Three  wounded  men,  whom  it  had  been  impos- 
sible to  remove,  were  left  behind  in  the  great  Salle 
des  Miroirs.  Claire  was  with  them  all  night.  The 
cure  had  stayed,  and  the  sage-femme  of  the 
village  had  also  remained  to  help  her;  the  doctor 
and  the  chemist  were  both  fled. 

One  of  the  men  died  in  the  night. 

Another,  who  was  delirious,  kept  singing  all 
the  time,  "Aupres  de  ma  Blonde." 

It  frightened  Claire.  There  was  a  moment 
when  she  was  uncontrollably  afraid.  She  was 
afraid,  not  of  the  things  that  were  coming  to  pass, 
but  with  a  nightmare  panic  of  the  wounded  man, 
singing,  "Aupres  de  ma  Blonde." 

She  could  not  bear  it.  She  rushed  in  desperate 
panic  to  find  Remy. 

It  was  in  the  moment  before  dawn;  the  birds 
190 


Fifteen  Days 

in  the  garden  and  park  were  waking;  the  halls 
and  stairs  were  still  dark.  She  thought  she  never 
would  find  him;  then  she  thought  he  must  be 
in  the  kitchen,  where  the  village  people  were 
huddled  together. 

She  found  him  there,  talking  to  them  quietly. 

There  was  a  girl  who  had  St.  Vitus  dance; 
she  sat  by  the  big  kitchen  table,  one  of  her  hands, 
that  would  not  keep  still,  thumping  and  thumping 
the  table.  Claire  was  afraid  to  go  into  the 
kitchen. 

Remy  came  out  into  the  passage  to  her,  and 
shut  the  kitchen  door  behind  him. 

The  lamp   was   still  burning  in  the   passage. 

She  caught  his  hands;  and  suddenly  she  had 
buried  her  face  in  his  shoulder  and  was  crying. 

"  There,  there, "  he  said,  patting  her  hair. 

She  sobbed,  clinging  to  him. 

"You  have  been  so  brave/'  he  said,  "poor 
child. " 

She  could  have  cried  for  a  long  time  with  his 
arms  around  her. 

But  he  said,  "You  must  not  let  them  find  you 
like  this,  you  know;  they  might  think  you  were 
afraid/' 

They  came,  very  shortly  after. 

There  was  a  galloping  of  hoofs  into  the  chateau 
courts,  and  a  shouting. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Then  came  the  mass  of  them,  surging  into  the 
court,  greenish-yellow,  with  their  loud,  snarling 
voices. 

Claire  saw  them  from  the  windows  over  the 
court;  Kemy  had  gone  down  to  meet  them. 

She  came  down  to  the  great  central  hall,  not 
afraid  any  more.  She  had  dressed  carefully, 
and  arranged  her  hair  specially  well.  Tall  and 
fine,  she  came  slowly  down  the  curving  stair- 
case, and  stopped  half-way  to  look  on  what  was 
passing  below. 

The  German  officers  seemed  to  her  to  be  all 
gigantic  creatures;  Kemy  looked  more  than  ever 
small  and  frail  among  them.  They  were  com- 
manding, this  way  and  that,  roughly.  Kemy 
stood  silent,  watching  them.  His  look  was  so 
high  and  cool,  so  proud  in  the  bitterness  of  the 
moment,  that  she  drew  herself  up  with  pride 
in  him. 

The  colonel  was  speaking  with  him,  and 
moved  toward  the  door  of  the  Salle  des  Miroirs. 
Bemy  stepped  before  him.  "Not  there,"  he  said, 
"two  men  are  dying  in  that  room." 

Claire  came  down  into  the  hall  and  crossed 
between  the  officers  and  went  to  stand  beside 
her  husband.  She  was  very  proud  to  stand 
beside  him.  Something  in  her  bearing  seemed 
to  carry  weight  with  the  officers;  they  drew  back, 
192 


Fifteen  Days 

less  insistent  before  her,  from  the  door  of  the 
Salle  des  Miroirs. 

Again  and  again,  in  the  fifteen  days  that 
followed,  she  felt  that  same  effect  of  her  presence 
upon  them,  and  knew  that  it  was  a  help  to  Remy. 

In  the  fifteen  days  he  and  she  had  opportunity 
for  very  few  words  together,  the  Germans  always 
watching  them  suspiciously. 

All  the  days  were  full  of  confusion;  Remy  was 
kept  constantly  about  with  the  German  officers 
to  arrange  for  the  billeting  of  the  men  in  the 
village,  the  stabling  of  horses  and  motors,  inter- 
preting, explaining.  No  one  but  he  could  get 
the  frightened  people,  the  few  there  were  of  them 
remaining,  to  go  back  to  their  houses  and  do  the 
things  required  of  them.  No  one  but  he  could 
protect  them,  and  at  the  same  time  see  to  it 
that  they  gave  no  offence.  The  least  rousing 
of  the  Germans'  anger  would,  he  knew,  have  to 
be  paid  for  dreadfully.  Their  demands  were 
made  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet.  They  were 
angry  because  the  bridge  had  been  destroyed, 
and  only  Remy's  cool,  quiet  strength  of  insistence 
kept  them  from  carrying  out  the  threat  to  burn 
the  village  in  reprisal.  To  hold  his  own,  the 
while  obeying  as  he  must  obey,  yielding  this 
point  and  that,  submitting,  and  yet  faithfully 
defending  all  that  depended  on  him,  was  no  easy 
193 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

matter  of  accomplishment.  He  must  keep  faith 
and  dignity,  and  yet  he  must  not  give  offence. 

There  were  very  desperate  moments  when 
the  Germans  would  be  asking  for  information, 
about  the  telephones  and  telegraphs,  and  about 
the  country,  the  roads,  and  the  marble  quarries, 
the  rebuilding  of  the  bridge.  Such  help  he  could 
not  give  them,  and  there  were  moments  when  his 
refusal  to  talk,  like  his  refusal  to  take  a  cigarette, 
risked  everything. 

Claire  came  to  have  a  special  dread  of  the 
colonel's  fat  leather  cigarette-case.  Eemy  must 
wave  it  aside  saying,  so  that  his  meaning  was  quite 
clear  and  yet  courteous,  that  he  had  given  up 
smoking  for  the  time.  The  little  scene  of  it  was 
repeated  night  after  night. 

At  first  the  Germans  would  have  him  always 
stand  up  in  their  presence.  They  would  send 
for  him  while  they  dined,  and  have  him  stand 
there  while  they  questioned  and  commanded. 
Then  they  realized  that  it  was  his  wish  to 
stand,  that  few  things  would  have  been  more 
hateful  for  him  than  to  have  sat  down  with 
them. 

After  that  they  would  have  him  and  Claire 

dine  with  them.     They  sent  for  Claire  to  come 

down  to  the  dining-room,  where  they  were  already 

seated  at  table  and  Bemy  was  standing.     She 

194 


Fifteen  Days 

must  sit  on  the  colonel's  right,  and  drink  a  glass 
of  champagne  with  him. 

One  of  the  officers  called  to  her  down  the 
table,  "There  is  yet  left  many  a  toast  we  can 
drink  together,  the  brave  and  the  fair!" 

She  thought  that  Kemy's  fury  would  get  the 
better  of  him,  and  she  spoke  quickly,  before  he 
could  speak.  She  moved  quickly  between  him 
and  the  colonel. 

The  colonel,  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
under  the  portraits  of  generations  of  Kemy's 
people,  glared  up  at  her  as  she  stood,  very  tall. 

"You  will  do  as  I  command  you,  madame," 
he  said. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  escape.  Desperately 
chancing  it,  she  said,  "But  you  will  not  stoop 
to  command  so  idly.  You  know  that  we  have 
no  help  but  to  obey  you.  Of  what  value  could 
be  forced  obedience  to  you  in  so  petty  a  thing? 
I  know  you  will  not  command  a  thing  so  trivial 
and  poor." 

And  he  did  not  ask  it  of  them. 

Her  days  as  well  as  Bemy's  were  crowded. 
The  Germans  required  so  many  things,  and  there 
was  no  one  left  to  serve  them.  She  had  only  a 
few  peasant  servants  to  help  her.  The  Germans 
demanded  food,  and  there  was  scarcely  anything 
to  give  them.  Very  little  could  be  got  in  the 
195 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

emptied  village;  there  was  no  more  meat  or 
bread.  These  people  must  eat,  or  they  would 
become  ugly.  She  must  manage  it  somehow.  She 
had  to  get  the  bakery  started  again,  and  make 
the  villagers  understand  that  they  must  give 
what  they  had  in  their  little  gardens,  and  their 
chickens  and  the  rabbits.  Old  Jantot  at  the 
castle  was  quite  unable  to  do  the  work  of  the 
kitchen-gardens  and  dairies.  She  worked  hard 
helping  him. 

All  the  day  of  the  arrival  of  the  Germans  she 
had  been  pitching  hay  from  the  stable  loft  to 
make  bedding  for  the  men  quartered  there;  she 
scarcely  left  her  work  that  day,  except  to  go  to 
the  funeral  of  the  soldier  who  had  died  in  the 
Salle  des  Miroirs. 

The  cure  helped  old  Jantot  to  carry  him,  and 
she  followed  them  out  through  the  courts,  and 
past  the  German  guard. 

The  two  other  wounded  men  in  the  Salle  des 
Miroirs  died  while  the  strange  alien  life  of  the 
chateau  went  on.  Three  or  four  people  of  the 
village  were  ill;  one  woman  and  her  newly 
born  child  died;  there  was  no  one  but  Claire  to 
help  the  sage-femme. 

The  Germans  accused  the  old  cure  of  signalling 
from  the  church  tower.  They  took  him  into 
the  market-place,  with  a  rope  tied  round  his 


Fifteen  Days 

neck,  to  hang  him,  they  said,  under  the  plane- 
tree  by  the  fountain.  Kemy  stood  by  him, 
risking  everything  to  make  them  delay  a  few 
minutes. 

Claire  found  the  colonel;  she  never  could 
remember  what  she  said,  how  she  pleaded.  But 
the  colonel  said,  "If  we  find  these  things  true 
against  him,  then  it  will  be  your  husband  who 
will  hang  for  it. ' ' 

In  one  of  the  rare  moments  when  they  were 
alone  together,  Kemy  said  something  which  gave 
her  more  pleasure  to  hear  than  anything  that 
had  ever  been  told  her  before.  He  told  her 
that  but  for  her  he  did  not  think  he  could  possibly 
endure  it,  that  only  her  presence  there,  so  brave 
and  strong,  the  one  thing  left  in  the  world,  gave 
him  strength  to  go  on. 

He  had  come  up  to  her  room,  a  small  tower 
room  she  had  withdrawn  to  when  the  Germans 
arrived.  It  was  late  in  the  evening,  the  room 
was  almost  dark,  and  she  had  lighted  two  candles 
on  the  little  table,  by  the  window,  where  she  was 
having  bread  and  soup  on  a  tray.  He  had  had 
scarcely  anything  to  eat  all  day,  and  she  made  him 
share  the  soup  and  the  bread.  They  laughed 
because  he  was  really  hungry.  Cut  off  from  the 
world,  completely  alone  together  in  the  most 
intense  isolation,  having  no  one,  nothing,  left, 
197 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

either  of  them,  but  each  the  other,  in  a  world 
terrible  beyond  belief,  they  laughed  together 
because  he  was  so  absurdly  hungry. 

They  knew  nothing  but  what  the  Germans  told 
them  of  things  that  were  happening  in  the 
world. 

How  could  they  believe  such  things?  They 
did  not  believe,  and  yet  to  hear  them  said ! 

Fifteen  days  passed,  that  they  could  not  have 
lived  through  if  there  had  not  been  so  much  for 
them  to  do  in  every  moment,  and  if  they  had 
not  had  each  of  them  the  comfort  and  support 
of  the  other's  presence.  Fifteen  days  passed, 
of  helplessness  and  dread,  almost  despair. 

Then,  in  one  day,  something  was  changed 
for  the  Germans;  there  was  no  knowing  what 
it  was ;  their  mood  took  on  a  new  ugliness. 

It  was  that  day  that  some  of  the  men  hanged 
Claire's  St.  Bernard  puppy.  They  hanged  him 
on  the  terrace  from  the  branch  of  the  big  chestnut 
tree  and  left  him  there.  Claire  came  up  through 
the  park  from  the  village  and  found  him.  They 
never  knew  why  the  men  had  done  it;  it  seemed 
so  small  and  useless  a  thing  to  have  done. 

For  two  days  she  and  Remy  were  kept  as 
prisoners,  allowed  to  leave  their  rooms  only 
attended  by  a  soldier,  and  not  to  go  to  the  village 
at  all.  There  seemed  to  be  a  great  confusion 

198 


Fifteen  Days 

and  commotion  in  the  village  and  in  the  castle, 
but  no  explanation  was  given  them. 

Then,  in  one  night,  the   Germans  were  gone. 

Village  and  castle  were  left  empty  for  scarcely 
a  morning,  and  then  came  French  troops,  in 
hot  pursuit  from  the  victory  of  the  Marne. 

From  the  victory  of  the  Marne — there  had 
been  a  victory,  a  great  victory!  What  a  thing 
to  hear,  after  their  almost  hopeless  days!  Hope- 
lessness had  been  so  black  and  close  about  them. 
And  now  it  was  lifted,  dispersed,  in  a  moment, 
by  a  word.  Here  come  their  own  people  crying 
victory.  In  their  own  tongue,  their  own  men, 
dressed  in  blue,  told  them  of  victory. 

Those  things  the  Germans  had  said  were  not 
true.  They  had  never  believed,  but  now  they 
knew.  To  think  of  looking  into  the  faces  of 
friends,  of  talking  with  friends!  The  humblest 
little  soldier  was  a  friend,  the  most  wonderful 
of  all  things. 

Kemy,  who  had  all  his  life  been  distant  and 
cold,  was  inexpressibly  happy  to  wring  a  friend's 
hand,  and  sit  with  him,  or  pace  the  floor  with 
him,  and  smoke  with  him. 

What  a  pleasure  to  give  all  one  had  to  friends! 

How  happy  Claire  was  to  help  scrub  and  cook 
for  friends ! 

It  was  a  madness  of  relief  and  joy. 
199 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

There  was  little  time  for  thinking  about  it 
though.  The  new  possession  of  the  chateau 
was  a  desperately  risky  thing. 

But  these  were  friends,  to  suffer  with  and  die 
with,  if  need  be.  Nothing  could  be  as  terrible 
as  in  those  past  days  of  isolation  among 
enemies.  Among  friends  they  met  what  came. 

In  a  few  hours  death  and  destruction  were  upon 
everything.  And  then,  day  after  day,  day  after 
day,  the  battle  raged  along  the  river  and  under 
the  edge  of  the  hills;  the  sound  of  the  cannon 
grew  to  be  a  familiar  part  of  the  nights  and  days; 
the  screech  of  a  shell  was  no  longer  strange. 

The  Germans  had  withdrawn  to  the  strongholds 
of  the  marble  quarries,  just  above  the  village. 
The  village  was  crossed  by  the  two  fires.  The 
poor  people  were  killed  in  their  little  houses. 

Men  who  went  up  on  the  chateau  roofs  to  re- 
connoitre, were  brought  back  dead.  An  officer 
was  killed  by  a  shell  on  the  terrace,  under  the  big 
chestnut  tree. 

Claire  had  to  leave  her  tower  room,  and  next 
day  it  had  fallen  with  all  the  roofs  of  the  east 
wing  of  the  castle.  Two  men  were  killed  in  the 
fall  of  the  east  wing  roofs,  and  the  chestnut 
tree  of  the  terrace,  that  had  shaded  generations 
of  pleasant  dreaming,  was  struck  down  under 
falling  of  tiles  and  stone. 
200 


Fifteen  Days 

They  established  the  staff  of  the  Etat-Major 
for  greater  safety  in  the  cellars. 

More  than  half  the  village  was  destroyed  in 
those  days.  Claire  and  her  husband  lodged  the 
homeless  people  as  best  they  could  in  the  dairy, 
the  ground  floor  of  the  chateau  was  already 
crowded  with  the  officers,  and  the  stables  and 
farm-buildings  with  the  men. 

For  Remy  and  Claire  there  was  left  one  room, 
not  too  exposed,  on  the  first  floor. 

From  the  window  of  it,  together,  one  night, 
they  watched  the  burning  of  a  village  over  across 
the  valley.  It  was  a  village  of  nearly  all  thatched 
roofs:  it  must  have  caught  fire  from  the  shells, 
and  in  that  one  night  it  was  burnt  to  the  ground. 

As  she  and  Remy  stood  in  the  window,  with 
nothing  left  about  them  but  ruin  and  death, 
she  remembered  how,  just  before  all  this,  they 
had  thought  they  were  come  to  the  end  of  their 
life  together;  they  had  thought  they  were  no- 
thing to  one  another  any  more.  And  then 
suddenly  they  had  come  to  be  everything  to 
each  other.  How  could  they  either  of  them 
have  borne  it  without  the  other? 

Now    their    intense,    their    desperate    solitude, 

together,  was  at  an  end.     Others  had  come  to 

share    with    them    the    burden    of    these    things. 

There  were  others,  to  whom  they;  could  turn  now 

201 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

for  comradeship.  All  of  it  was  horrible,  but  now 
the  world  was  again  about  them,  life  was  opening 
its  ways  again. 

She  wondered,  standing  there  by  him,  if, 
when  some  day  the  dreadful  sounds  of  war  were 
ceased  and  there  was  given  them  a  chance  to  take 
up  what  they  might  of  life  again  and  go  on  with 
it — would  they  go  on  with  it  together?  She 
wondered  if  he  knew  of  what  she  was  thinking  as 
they  stood  there  side  by  side?  They  had  now 
become  used  to  feeling  one  another's  thoughts. 

She  was  thinking  that  surely,  after  this,  what- 
ever happened  they  would  have  to  go  on  with  it 
together?  They  had  gone  through  too  much 
together  ever  again  to  break  away.  She  would 
not  have  it  otherwise,  oh,  not  for  all  the  world 
would  she  have  had  it  otherwise.  But  she  was 
wondering,  if  the  great  need  passed,  and  life 
became  small  again,  would  they  be  changed 
enough?  Would  all  this  they  had  gone  through 
have  given  them  greatness  enough  to  face,  down 
length  of  days,  the  little  things  together? 

Hospital,    Monday,   June    i2th 

WE  never  see  them  well.      As  soon  as  they 
are   better   at   all   they   send   them   down- 
stairs   to    the     convalescent     ward,     and     from 
202 


Hospital,  Monday,  June  12th 

there  they  are  marked  for  other  hospitals,  and 
in  a  day  or  two,  one  morning,  I  come  to  find  them 
gone.  The  men  who  were  evacuated  at  the  be- 
ginning of  Verdun  did  not  even  make  the  halt 
of  the  ward  downstairs.  And  now  those  first 
Verdun  men  are  gone,  all  but  the  very  worst 
of  them,  to  make  place  for  men  from,  we  don't 
know  where. 

The  boy  with  the  almond-shaped  eyes  is  one  of 
those  who  are  left.  He  was  much  better  for  days, 
and  now  he  has  gone  down  again.  He  is  tuber- 
culous, and  that  is  why  he  never  will  get  well. 
He  lies  sunk  down  in  the  bed,  a  very  small  heap 
with  closed  eyes  and  one  cheek  always  bright  red. 
His  father  and  mother  have  come  up  from  the 
country,  from  somewhere  in  Normandy;  they 
sit  together  beside  his  bed  and  look  at  him.  His 
mother  wears  a  dress  of  the  richest  black  silk, 
that  must  have  been  the  gala  dress  of  her  family 
for  two  or  three  generations,  and  a  cap  of  lace 
that  the  smartest  lady  in  Paris  would  be  proud 
of.  His  father  wears  a  black  satin  Sunday 
smock,  of  which  the  yoke  is  embroidered  wonder- 
fully. They  have  dressed  themselves  in  their 
very  best  to  come  and  sit  by  their  boy,  who 
scarcely  notices  them. 

I  like  to  think  how  happily  the  new  Number 
4 — we  call  them  all  new  since  Verdun  began — 
203 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

went  off,  with  his  one  leg.  He  will  have  a 
wooden  stick  leg  and  be  able  to  get  about 
splendidly  in  his  meadows  of  the  High  Loire. 
To-day  he  showed  me  a  little  photograph  of  his 
wife,  in  close-bound  muslin  cap  and  folded  necker- 
chief. Her  face  is  like  the  face  of  the  Madonna 
in  the  simple  calm  pure  paintings  of  the  old 
masters.  I  said,  "She  is  perfectly  beautiful. " 
He  said,  "Oh,  no,  madame,  she  is  only  a  peasant, 
and  not  young.  It  is  not  even  a  good  photograph. 
And  it  is  all  cracked  and  rubbed,  madame  sees, 
because  I  have  worn  it  all  the  time  of  the  war, 
sewn  in  my  coat." 

Little  Charles  is  always  left — poor  little 
Charles,  well  used  to  the  confusion  of  departures 
and  arrivals. 

As  I  was  leaving  to-day  at  noon,  the  mother 
and  father  of  the  boy  with  the  almond-shaped 
eyes  got  up  from  beside  his  bed  and  stopped 
me.  The  father,  who  has  almond-shaped  eyes 
too,  asked  if  they  might  have  a  word  with  me 
when  no  one  could  hear.  Their  gala  finery 
made  them  the  more  pathetic,  confused,  and 
timid,  strangers  in  such  strange  times  and 
place. 

We  went  out  into  the  corridor,  the  three  of 
us,  and  stood  by  the  door  of  Madame  Bayle's 
linen-room. 

204 


Saturday,  June  24th 

The  father  asked  me,  whispering,  if  I  thought 
that  the  people  of  the  hospital  were  fond  of  the 
boy?  He  said  that  he  and  the  mother  were 
obliged  to  go  back  that  night  to  the  farm,  and 
did  I  think  that  these  people  they  must  leave 
their  boy  with  were  fond  of  him? 


Saturday,  June  24th 

boy  with  the  almond-shaped  eyes  is  dead. 
•••  He  died  day  before  yesterday.     I  have  been 
ill  and  not  at  the  hospital  these  days,  and  I  did 
not   know.     I   went   back  to   the   hospital   only 
this  afternoon. 

His  father  and  mother  arrived  too  late,  this 
morning.  They  had  had  scarcely  time  to  reach 
the  farm  in  Normandy,  when  one  of  the  house 
doctors,  a  kind  man,  wrote  to  tell  them  to  come 
back.  At  the  bureau  they  made  a  mistake  in 
the  address  they  gave  the  doctor,  and  his  letter 
was  returned  to  him  in  the  post  the  day  before 
the  boy  died.  The  doctor  telegraphed  then,  but 
it  was  too  late. 

I  do  not  know  who  told  the  father  and  mother 

when  they  came  this  morning.     I  do  not  know 

where  they  are  today — this  day  so  terrible  for 

them  in  the  great  strange  city.     I  would  have 

205 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

liked  to  find  them.  Madame  Marthe  says  they 
were  surely  allowed  to  go  and  see  their  boy,  where 
he  is,  but  not  to  stay  with  him. 

I  think  of  them,  peasant  people,  confused  and 
strange  in  city  streets,  frightened,  belonging  to 
no  one,  terribly  alone,  with  nowhere  to  go  in 
their  grief.  Where  are  they  gone  in  their  grief? 
They,  to  whom  nothing  has  ever  been  explained, 
who  are  so  unable  to  tell  or  to  ask. 


Sunday,   June   25th 

I  WAS  going  to  the  chapel  with  my  flowers, 
but  I  met  Madame  Marthe  in  the  archway  of 
our  court,  and  she  told  me  it  was  not  there  that 
I  would  find  him.  We  went  together  around 
behind  the  chapel  and  past  buildings  that  I  had 
never  seen  before,  of  the  immense  world  of  the 
hospital.  What  a  dreadful  world  in  this  June 
sunshiny  morning! 

A  steep,  dusty  road  goes  up  past  outbuildings 
of  the  hospital,  workshops,  and  yards,  where 
there  were  some  green  things  growing,  and  at  the 
top  there  were  a  lot  of  our  soldiers  waiting  at  the 
door  of  a  low,  long  house.  My  poor  little  hobbling, 
lopsided  blue  soldiers,  with  their  bandages  and 
206 


Sunday,  June  25th 

slings   and   canes   and   crutches!      I    think   they 
are  so  beautiful. 

The  doors  of  the  house  were  open.  Up  two 
steps,  and  there  were  the  father  and  mother, 
in  their  black  silk  and  satin,  standing  beside 
the  boy.  They  were  perfectly  quiet.  The  strange 
thing  about  the  grief  one  sees  in  these  days, 
everywhere,  is  that  always  it  is  so  perfectly 
quiet.  The  boy  looked  just  as  one  had  seen  him 
so  often,  sleeping,  with  his  almond  eyes  closed. 
Only  there  was  no  fever  in  his  cheeks  any  more. 

The  black  hearse  came  up  the  road  with  several 
croquemorts  and  eight  Kepublican  Guards;  they 
had  two  crossed  palms  for  the  boy,  and  the  flag 
to  cover  him,  and  the  black  wooden  cross  that 
was  to  mark  his  grave. 

We  followed  down  the  road  an<^  across  the 
courts  and  out  of  the  hospital  gates. 

The  Sunday  morning  market  was  busy  and 
noisy  outside  in  the  street,  but  a  silence  seemed 
to  form  itself  around  us  as  we  went  between  the 
barrows  and  booths  of  summer  country  things. 
Then  we  went  along  a  wide  avenue  that  was 
empty,  where  the  sound  of  the  wheels  of  the  hearse 
and  of  the  horses'  hoofs  seemed  solemn  and 
monotonous,  and  as  if  it  were  something  that 
never  would  cease.  The  boy's  father  and  mother 
trudged  ahead  sturdily,  with  the  strong  gait  of 
207 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

peasants  from  the  fields,  and  my  wounded  dragged 
along,  already  tired.  It  was  a  long  way  from 
the  hospital  to  the  church. 

There  were  many  people  in  the  street  of  the 
church,  and  on  the  church  steps,  and  the  church 
inside  was  crowded.  It  is  the  church  of  an  ir- 
religious quarter,  but  it  was  crowded. 

A  big  Suisse  with  his  mace  led  us  along  the 
aisle,  through  the  throng  of  people  who  stood 
back  from  us,  to  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady,  behind 
the  high  altar.  Many  of  the  Suisses  of  the 
churches  of  this  quarter  are  gendarmes,  needed 
because  the  roughs  who  come  into  the  church 
would  often  make  disturbance.  The  big  Suisse 
had  the  air  of  a  gendarme,  ordering  us. 

But  now  the  boy's  mother  and  father  were 
in  a  place  they  understood.  There  was  no  need 
to  order  them.  They  knew  just  what  to  do. 
They  had  been  uncertain  elsewhere,  timid  and 
bewildered,  in  the  hospital,  in  the  streets,  but 
in  the  church  they  were  at  home. 

The  boy's  mother  motioned  me  into  a  chair 
behind  hers.  She  and  I  were  the  only  women: 
Madame  Marthe  had  had  to  go  back  to  her  work 
in  the  ward.  I  knelt  where  she  told  me  to  kneel. 
The  boy's  father  helped  'the  wounded  into  the 
chairs  across  the  chapel  aisle  from  us,  and  took  his 
place  in  front  of  them.  In  the  aisle,  between  his 
203 


Sunday,  June  25th 

father  and  mother,  the  boy  had  his  four  lighted 
tapers  and  his  crossed  palms  and  the  flag  of  his 
country. 

The  priest  who  said  the  office  was  old,  and 
fumbled  and  murmured.  I  was  glad  that  he 
was  slow.  It  gave  a  longer  time  for  the  father 
and  mother  to  rest  and  be  comforted. 

The  Suisse  was  rather  in  a  hurry  at  the  end  of 
it,  perhaps  there  was  another  funeral  waiting. 
He  would  have  had  us  follow  the  priest  out 
quickly. 

But  the  boy's  mother  would  stop  to  kneel 
by  the  boy  for  a  little  moment,  there  before 
the  altar  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  The  boy's  father 
came  and  knelt  also,  on  the  floor  of  the  aisle. 

Two  calm  figures,  they  knelt  there,  the  Suisse 
could  not  hurry  them.  Those  who  would  have 
carried  their  boy  away  stood  and  waited.  We 
stood  back  and  waited.  The  stir  up  and  down  of 
people  outside  the  chapel  gates  went  on,  and  all 
the  stirs  of  the  church  and  the  streets  and  the 
world. 

The  two  calm  figures  knelt,  for  the  moment 
they  were,  with  their  sorrow,  at  peace;  not 
strangers  here,  but  at  home  in  the  house  of  that 
which  did  not  confuse  or  frighten  them. 


209 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


The  Stain 

maid,  who  had  been  Giselle's  nurse  so 
short  a  time  ago,  opened  the  library  door  and 
announced,  unwillingly,  one  could  see,  "  Madame 
la  Marquise  de  St.  Agnan,  Madame  la  Comtesse." 

Giselle,  in  her  heavy  mourning,  stood  up  from 
the  chair  by  the  window.  She  did  not  go  forward 
to  meet  Paule. 

"It  is  sweet  of  you  to  see  me,"  said  Paule, 
crossing  the  room  to  her,  slender  and  tall  and 
lovely. 

The  baby-boy  and  girl  who  had  been  playing 
with  some  wooden  toy  soldiers  on  the  floor  in  a 
corner,  both  scrambled  up  and  trotted  over  to 
their  mother. 

Paule  had  never  seen  them  before.  She  wanted 
to  take  them  both  in  her  arms  and  hold  them 
tight.  She  thought  she  could  never  have  let 
the  boy  go. 

But  Giselle  said  to  the  maid,  "Honorine,  please 
take  the  children  to  Miss." 

They  went  out  with  the  old  woman,  who  closed 
the  door. 

"It  was  very  sweet  of  you  to  let  me  come," 
repeated  Paule,  because  she  had  to  say  something. 
It  was  harder  than  she  had  thought  possible. 
210 


The  Stain 

' ' I  have  seen  no  one  at  all, ' '  said  Giselle.  ' '  But 
your  letter — I  don't  know — I  wondered " 

They  stood  looking  at  one  another.  Of  course, 
they  did  not  touch  one  another's  hands. 

Suddenly  the  room  seemed  to  swim  about 
Paule,  there  was  a  surging  in  her  ears.  She  said, 
"May  I  sit  down?" 

"But  I  beg  you!  I  am  sorry,  I  can't  seem 
to  think  of  things.  Here  in  the  window?'* 

Paule  dragged  the  chair  out  of  the  light  of  the 
sunshiny  June  morning  into  the  shadow  of  the 
curtain.  She  was  wearing  a  heavy  white  lace 
veil,  but  she  did  not  want  to  face  the  sunshine. 

Giselle  threw  herself  into  the  chair  where  she 
had  been  sitting  before.  Her  crape  and  the 
traces  of  many  tears  upon  her  face  only  made 
her  look  the  more  pathetically  young. 

"You  wondered,"  said  Paule,  "if  my  letter 
were  true,  really;  if  it  were  possible  that  I  could 
honestly  write  like  that  of  him?" 

Giselle  nodded  her  head,  not  speaking. 

Paule  saw  that  it  would  not  have  been  possible 
for  her  to  speak.  She  saw,  what  she  had  been 
sure  she  would  see,  that  the  younger  woman  was 
suffering  intensely.  She  realized,  more  than  ever 
what  the  thing  meant  to  her  Bernard's  wife; 
how  for  her  everything  of  her  memory  of  him,  the 
memory  she  was  to  keep  with  her  all  her  life, 

211 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

depended  on  what  she  was  to  learn  in  this  hour. 
All  the  memory  she  was  to  keep  of  her  dead  hus- 
band depended  on  it.  That  she  might  remember 
him  with  tenderness  and  solace  and  peace ;  or  that 
it  must  be  always  with  uncertainty  and  restlessness, 
and  bitter  thoughts.  To  be  able  to  mourn  him 
fully,  fearlessly;  or  to  go  on  always  tormenting 
herself  with  doubt.  It  was  of  desperate  im- 
portance to  her.  Paule  saw  that.  She  knew 
that  the  younger  woman  kept  silent  because  she 
could  not  speak,  not  because  of  any  realization 
she  had  of  the  advantage  silence  gave  her. 

Giselle,  silent,  waited. 

The  older  woman,  braving  the  silence,  took  the 
thing  up. 

"You  are  going  to  believe  what  I  tell  you.  I 
don't  know  why  you  should  believe  me,  but  you 
will.  They  all  talk  of  it,  but  I  am  the  only  one 
who  really  knows.  And  I  have  got  to  tell  you. 
The  things  they  say  are  true,  but  with  such  a 
difference.  I  must  make  you  understand  the 
difference.  Since  the  moment  Dolly  told  me 
that  you  knew,  I  have  known  that  I  must  make 
you  understand.  I  cannot  let  you  misunderstand 
him  when  he  is  dead/' 

She  was  holding  her  parasol  across  her  knees, 
her  hands  in  their  soft  tan  gloves  clutching  the  two 
ends  of  it  very  tight. 

212 


The  Stain 

"It  is  rather  terribly  hard  for  me  to  tell  you/' 
she  said,  "harder  even  than  for  you  to  listen. 
Kemember  that,  if  I  seem  to  go  over  it  cruelly. " 
She  stopped,  and  Giselle  nodded  again. 

"I  must  go  over  it,"  Paule  went  on,  speaking 
very  fast  now,  "so  that  we  can  have  it  all  clear 
between  us.  Don't  you  see?  tie  came  home 
here  for  six  days'  leave.  He  told  you  he  had 
six  days'  leave.  When  he  went,  at  the  end  of 
those  six  days,  you  thought  it  was  back  to  the 
front  he  was  gone.  Then,  three  days  after 
lie  left  you,  he  was  killed  in  a  bayonet  charge. 
And  his  colonel,  and  some  of  his  friends,  said, 
writing  to  you  and  to  other  people  of  him,  that 
it  was  especially  sad  to  think  he  had  been  killed 
the  very  day  Tie  came  back  from  Jiis  leave.  So 
you  knew  that  his  leave  had  been  of  eight  days, 
that  he  had  had  two  days'  extra  leave  of  which 
he  had  not  told  you,  spent,  you  did  not  know 
where,  or  with  whom.  And  then  it  happened 
Dolly  spoke  to  you  of  seeing  him  with  me  in 
Evreux  the  very  day  before  he  was  killed.  And 
so  you  knew.  She  had  spoken  of  it  to  lots  of  people 
— the  way  people  always  say,  you  know,  'and  I 
saw  him  only  the  day  before.'  And  so  every 
one  knew.  And  you  knew.  But  I  have  got  to 
make  you  understand." 

She  let  go  her  parasol  and,  leaning  forward 
213 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

into  the  sunshine,  threw  her  veil  back  from 
her  face  with  her  two  hands.  "I  will  let  you 
see  how  I  have  suffered,"  she  said,  "it  is 
written  for  you  in  my  face."  She  was  glad  to 
have  the  younger  woman  see  how  much  of  her 
beauty  was  gone.  "And  that  I  loved  him.  You 
know — I  must  let  you  know — that  I  loved  him. 
I  loved  him  when  you  were  a  little  schoolroom 
girl.  And  he  did  love  me  then."  She  drew 
herself  up  with  a  sudden  flaming  of  pride.  "I 
will  give  myself  the  comfort  of  saying  that  he 
loved  me  before  he  knew  you,  Giselle."  The 
flame  died  down  instantly,  and  she  leaned  forward, 
almost  beseechingly.  The  parasol  had  fallen  to 
the  floor.  "But  he  never  loved  me  afterwards. 
From  the  moment  he  saw  you — I  was  with  him 
at  somebody's  dance  the  first  time  he  saw  you — 
I  knew  that  for  me  everything  was  finished. 
Everything  was  swept  away  by  his  love  of  you. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

"I  believed  it  then,"  said  Giselle,  speaking  at 
last,  "then,  and  all  the  time,  in  spite  of  all  the 
things  that  people  said,  until  this." 

"There  was  one  thing  I  never  let  go,"  Paule 
went  on;  "it  was  the  pitying,  protecting  tender- 
ness a  man  who  is  good  like  Bernard  always 
continues  to  feel  for  the  woman  he  once  loved 
and  who  goes  on  loving  him.  I  kept  that  alive, 
214 


The  Stain 

I  kept  him  being  sorry  for  me.  There's  reason 
enough  in  my  life  for  any  one  to  be  sorry  for  me. 
And  I  kept  him  feeling  that  he  must  protect  me, 
protect  me  from  the  blackness  of  sorrow  that, 
I  let  him  know  always,  there  was  in  my  heart. ' ' 

Giselle  had  turned  from  her,  as  if  she  could  not 
look  at  her,  and  sat  staring  out  of  the  window 
to  the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the  avenue.  Her 
cheeks  were  burning,  as  if  the  shame  of  the 
miserable  confession  were  her  own. 

"Do  you  not  see,  oh,  do  you  not  see?"  begged 
the  other  woman. 

There  was  a  dreadful  silence. 

Paule  took  it  up  again.  "And  the  last  thing 
was  the  accumulation  of  the  shame  and  misery 
of  years.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see,  a  little, 
what  it  meant  to  me,  that  you  might  not  quite 
despise  me.  I  suppose  there  is  no  excuse.  But 
it  had  been  so  dreadful,  down  there  in 
the  country,  with  my  husband,  as  he  is, 
you  know,  ill,  needing  me,  hating  me, 
wanting  me  every  moment.  And  all  these 
terrible  months  of  war,  nearly  two  years,  never « 
seeing  Bernard,  scarcely  hearing  of  him.  I 
made  him  come.  I  made  him  come  by  telling 
him  that  I  was  in  desperate  trouble,  that  if  he  did 
not  come  I  could  not  face  it.  I  told  him  he  must 
tell  no  one,  not  even  you:  that  my  trouble  was 
215 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

a  thing  I  must  keep  secret.  Against  his  will,  just 
by  abuse  of  his  kindness  I  made  him  give  me 
those  two  days.  I  want  you  to  quite,  quite 
understand  that  it  was  only  that  I  loved  him,  that 
he  loved  you.  And  that  those  two  days  were  my 
theft  of  time  he  wanted  to  give  all  to  you." 

"Oh,  don't,  don't!"  cried  Giselle,  breaking 
into  it.  "You  need  not  tell  me  any  more." 
She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  if  it 
were  she  who  was  ashamed. 

"Some  day  you  will  wonder  why  I  have  told 
you,"  Paule  said,  "why  any  woman  should  so 
humiliate  herself  down  to  the  dust.  It  is 
because  you  have  the  right  to  a  beautiful  memory 
of  him.  You  must  keep  that  beautiful  memory 
of  him  for  yourself  and  for  his  children.  ft 
belongs  to  you,  and  to  his  home,  and  to  his 
children.  Never  doubt  him,  Giselle,  and  let  your 
sorrow  be  a  beautiful  sorrow,  because  he  loved 
you  as  you  loved  him,  perfectly.  And  in  death 
he  is  yours.  That  is  all." 

She  stopped  and  picked  up  her  parasol.  It  was 
a  green  parasol.  She  looked  from  its  bright 
colour  to  Giselle's  black  dress.  She  shivered  a 
little  and  stood  up. 

Giselle  took  her  hands  away  from  her  eyes 
and  stood  up,  too. 

Paule  would  have  turned  and  gone  out  of  the 
216 


The  Stain 

room,  but  Giselle  caught  her  hands  and  held  her, 
and  lifted  up  her  young  face  from  which  the 
tortured  look  was  gone.  She  was  crying,  but 
tenderly. 

For  an  instant  it  seemed  as  if  Paule  would 
have  drawn  away  from  her.  But  then  she  bent 
from  her  lovely  height  and  kissed  the  younger 
woman.  Then  she  went  away. 

Giselle  did  not  go  to  the  door  with  her.  Old 
Honorine  let  her  out  of  the  apartment. 

She  went  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the 
avenue,  where  the  leaves  of  the  trees  made  large 
shadows. 

As  she  walked  very  wearily,  she  did  not  know 
where,  she  was  telling  herself  that  it  was  over, 
that  she  had  done  what  she  could.  She  had 
made  poor  little  Giselle  believe  her.  She  had 
given  him  to  Giselle. 

The  avenue  ahead  of  her  seemed  very,  very 
long.  She  wondered  if  she  would  ever  get  to  the 
end  of  it.  Her  thoughts  seemed  confused.  She 
wondered  what  there  was  so  cruel  about  Giselle's 
black  dress  and  her  own  green  parasol  with  the 
parrot  handle.  She  would  manage  somehow  to 
make  the  world  believe  that  story  she  had  told 
Giselle.  She  had  given  him  to  Giselle  to  mourn 
for.  Perhaps  that  would  wipe  out  some  of  it. 


'9X1 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


From    Verdun 

T  T  E  was  grown  so  used  to  his  mud-hole,  and 
•*•  •*•  the  straw,  and  the  mushrooms,  and  rats, 
that  when  he  was  come  into  the  salon  of  the 
house  in  the  Pare  Monceau,  and  the  butler  he 
never  had  seen  before  had  closed  the  door 
behind  him  saying,  in  odd  French,  that  he  would 
go  and  tell  Madame  la  Comtesse,  he  just  stood 
there  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  laughed.  He 
stood  there,  just  as  he  had  come  out  of  the 
trenches,  a  most  disreputable  figure  that  once 
had  been  blue,  and  laughed  to  think  that  it  was 
to  this,  all  this,  he  really  belonged.  This  was 
his  house,  and  his  wife  would  be  coming  in  a 
moment  into  the  room. 

The  room  smelled  of  sandal-wood  and  amber. 
Things  in  it  were  of  black  lacquer  and  mauve 
velvet  and  dull  gold.  There  were  lots  of  books 
about  on  low  tables,  and  Dolly's  gold  and 
amber  cigarette  things,  and  white  roses,  just  the 
heads  broken  off,  floating  in  flat  bowls  of  smoky 
jade.  How  like  Dolly  to  have  cut  off  the  long 
stems  of  the  roses  and  their  lovely  thorns  and 
leaves!  He  really  must  not  laugh.  There  was 
one  flame-red  vase  with  a  white  spirit  orchid  in  it. 

Then  Dolly  came  in,  as  fragile  and  pale  and 
218 


From  Verdun 

lovely  as  the  orchid.  It  was  ten  months  since 
he  had  seen  her.  How  delightfully  her  hair  was 
done,  and  her  fingers,  rose-tipped  like  sea-shells! 
She  came  to  him,  her  flower-face  lifted. 

He  said,  "Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  so  dirty. " 

Some  one  had  followed  her  into  the  room,  a 
woman  in  deep  mourning.  It  was  the  little 
Juriac,  Lisette  de  Juriac,  and  she  was  quite 
unchanged.  Not  even  her  heavy  crape  changed 
her.  How  was  it  possible  that  she  was  not 
changed?  How  could  she  still  be  beautiful? 

She  came  forward  saying,  "I  was  here  with 
Dolly;  I  could  not  go,  and  not  see  you.  I  must 
stop  just  a  moment  to  speak  to  you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  and  did  not 
know  what  to  say  to  her.  He  was  seeing  again 
that  which  he  had  seen  not  six  weeks  ago.  He 
had  seen  many  men  die  horribly,  horribly.  But 
if  he  thought  too  much  of  how  his  friend,  her 
husband,  had  died,  kept  too  vividly,  too  long, 
seeing  it,  he  would  go  mad.  Why  was  she  not 
gone  mad?  She  had  loved  her  husband,  who 
had  loved  her.  They  had  been  happy  to- 
gether. 

He  had  a  sudden  hatred  of  her  because  she  was 
not  gone  mad.  Because  there  was  some  becom- 
ing white  thing  about  her  face  to  soften  the 
harshness  of  the  crape,  and  because  there  were 
219 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

pearls  around  her  throat;  he  had  a  crazy  desire 
to  take  her,  his  two  hands  clutching  her  shoulders, 
and  tell  her  how  Eene  died,  tell  her  the  horror, 
burnt,  burnt,  burnt,  make  her  see  what  he  could 
not  stop  seeing.  Because  of  the  white  frill  and 
the  pearls,  he  wanted  to  make  her  see  it  and  feel 
it,  and  go  down  crushed  under  the  realization  of  it. 
He  would  have  made  her  ugly,  as  suffering 
makes  ugly.  When  she  was  ugly  he  would  believe 
she  suffered.  He  could  not  move  or  speak,  for 
he  would  have  seized  her  and  told  her. 

She  was  saying,  "You  were  with  him  in  the 
attack,  you  saw  him  fall,  and  you  went  back 
and  tried  to  save  him."  She  had  her  black 
gloves  and  parasol  in  her  hand,  and  a  little  black 
bag,  soft,  like  the  gloves.  She  was  trying  to 
open  the  little  black  bag  to  get  something  out  of 
it.  She  was  beginning  to  cry. 

Dolly,  saying,  "Poor  dear,  poor  dear,"  took 
the  gloves  and  parasol  from  her  and  found  a 
scrap  of  a  handkerchief  for  her  in  the  bag.  "Poor 
dear,  poor  dear."  She  put  her  arm  around 
Lisette  and  patted  her  eyes  with  the  tiny  hand- 
kerchief. "Darling,  it  was  a  glorious  death,  you 
know,  like  that,  in  action,  beautiful,  the  death 
he  would  have  chosen.  Jacques,  tell  her." 

Tell  her?  He  was  trying  not  to  tell  her.  He 
stood  there  looking  at  his  friend's  wife  and  trying 
220 


From  Verdun 

not  to  tell  her  of  the  hands  that  had  moved  and 
moved,  beating  and  beating  the  air. 

"Tell  her  how  fearless  he  was,"  Dolly  was 
saying,  "and  how  proud  she  must  be  of 
him." 

Oh,  yes,  there  was  that.  He  thought  of  the 
words  they  always  use.  He  said,  "He  died  for 
his  country. " 

She  was  crying  only  a  little,  but  with  really 
piteous  tears.  He  knew  that  after  a  while,  when 
he  was  himself  a  little  farther  from  it,  he  would 
be  sorry  for  her.  Her  dimpled  chin  quivered 
and  her  throat  throbbed  under  the  pearls.  She 
looked  at  him,  her  eyes  big  with  tears,  and,  half 
sobbing,  said,  "You  were  with  him  just  before 
the  attack,  the  last  to  speak  with  him/' 

"Yes,  we  were  together. " 

She  was  waiting  for  him  to  tell  her  something. 
But  there  was  nothing  to  tell  her.  He  had  again 
that  other  craziness.  Now  he  was  afraid  that 
he  would  laugh.  They  had  been  crouching 
behind  a  heap  of  dead  men,  in  the  terrible  dusk 
of  cannon  smoke  and  the  noise  that  never  ceased. 
He  remembered  they  had  been  eating  something. 
There  had  risen  a  wild,  strange  shriek  through 
the  noise  of  the  cannon,  and  they  had  leaped  up, 
had  shrieked,  and  been  over  the  sandbags. 

Lisette  was  waiting,  and  while  he  tried  to 
221 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

think,  she  said,  "Was  he  speaking  of  me?  Were 
his  last  words  for  me?" 

"He  was  always  thinking  of  you,  I  know, 
Lisette."  That  he  could  say  eagerly,  intensely — 
only  why  need  she  have  it  put  into  words?  "You 
were  his  whole  life,  Lisette." 

She  lifted  her  head  with  a  quite  perfect  gesture, 
and  smiled,  her  eyes  bright,  the  tears  gone  from 
them.  "I  was  his  whole  life,"  she  said,  "and  he 
died  for  his  country. "  There  was  no  more  sob  in  her 
voice.  She  said,  "He  was  so  young  and  splendid, 
and  he  had  always  been  so  happy.  He  had  so 
much  to  live  for.  He  gave  up  so  much  with  his 
life  for  his  country.  He  leaves  such  a  beautiful 
memory.  I  can  say,  'His  life  was  the  woman 
who  loved  him,  and  for  his  country  he  died.'  It 
is  beautiful.  That  is  the  only  comfort  of  it  all, 
that  it  is  beautiful."  She  broke  off  and  began 
again,  "I'm  glad  I  saw  you,  Jacques,  you  have 
helped  me,  I'm  so  unhappy."  She  put  the  little 
handkerchief  back  in  the  bag,  and  took  up  her 
gloves  and  parasol.  "Now  I  will  leave  you," 
she  said.  "Poor  boy,  you  must  be  too  tired  to 
talk.  How  wonderful  for  Dolly  to  have  you! 
Perhaps  you  will  come  with  her  to-morrow — 
they  have  persuaded  me  to  lend  my  ballroom  for 
just  a  little  music  for  the  blind.  Dolly  dear, 
you'll  not  fail  me?  You  know  I  count  on  you 
222 


From  Verdun 

to  look  after  people.  I  am  going  to  hide  away 
in  some  little  corner.  Isn't  it  strange/'  she  said 
to  Jacques,  "how  life  goes  on?" 

Dolly  and  he  went  to  the  door  with  her.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  big  hall. 

Dolly  said,  "That  man  is  really  too  stupid." 

Lisette  said,  "You  are  lucky  to  have  a  man- 
servant at  all. ' ' 

"What  a  lovely  sunset!"  said  Dolly  in  the 
open  door. 

"Yes,"  said  Lisette,  "isn't  it?" 

"Your  car  is  there?" 

"Yes;  good-bye,  Dolly  darling;  good-bye, 
Jacques,  and  thank  you." 

As  they  turned  back  from  the  door,  Dolly 
said,  "Poor  little  thing,  isn't  she  lovely  in  her 
mourning  ? ' ' 

She  put  her  arm  through  his  as  they  went 
across  the  hall  together.  "I'm  so  glad  to  have 
you,  Jacques,"  she  said,  "you  can't  imagine,  and 
I'm  so  proud  of  you.  You  don't  forget  me  there, 
Jacques;  you  love  me  just  as  you  always  did?" 

He  was  thinking.  Six  days'  leave,  perhaps  two 
days  extended.  In  nine  days  Dolly  might  be 
wearing  a  little  white  frill  inside  a  veil  of  heavy 
crape,  and  just  her  pearls.  And  she  would  say 
to  people  that  he  had  been  all  her  life,  and  that 
it  was  the  death  he  would  have  chosen.  And  in 
223 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

six  weeks  she  would  let  the  salon  be  used  for 
just  a  little  music  for  the  blind. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  as  they  went  up 
the  stairs  together,  "it  was  most  beautiful,  that 
thing  Lisette  said,  her  little  summing  up  of  it: 
'His  whole  life  was  the  woman  who  loved  him, 
and  for  his  country  he  died.'  It  made  me  think, 
you  know,  of  Dante,  those  four  lines  of  Pia  dei 
Tolomei." 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  turned  to  him,  a 
step  or  two  above  him,  standing  higher  than  he. 
"Look  at  me,  Jacques,  and  tell  me  I  have  not 
changed,  and  that  you  love  me.  What  are  you 
laughing  at?" 

"Nothing."  He  came  up  the  steps  and  took 
her  hands,  and  kissed  the  fingers  of  first  one 
hand  then  the  other.  "These-  last  weeks  I  have 
been  always  laughing;  you  must  not  mind.  And, 
dear,  I'm  so  glad  you  do  your  hair  like  that,  and 
remember  things  from  Dante,  and  play  with  the 
tips  of  roses,  and  that  you  do  not  understand." 


Sunday,  July  2nd 

T    AST  night  Paris  streets  heard  the  cannon  of 

*— '  the   great   prelude.     The   breeze,   that   was 

fresh  and  sweet  from  the  country,  brought  in 

224 


Sunday,  July  2nd 

the  sound  of  the  cannon.  In  the  silence  of  the 
night  the  streets  listened.  It  was  a  sound  regular 
and  even.  If  Time  were  a  great  clock  the  sound 
of  its  ticking  would  be  like  that,  on  and  on.  If 
there  were  one  great  pulse  that  beat  for  all  the 
life  of  the  world,  its  throb  would  be  like  that, 
unceasing,  relentless.  It  seemed  like  something 
that  had  always  been,  that  always  would  be.  It 
seemed  as  if  one  were  used  to  it,  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  the  burden  of  sound  that, 
the  whole  night  through,  the  sweet  fresh  breeze 
brought  in  to  Paris,  and  would  have  to  go  on 
bearing  it  always. 

But  when  the  city  stopped  listening,  and  took 
up  its  way  again  with  the  morning,  the  sound  of 
the  battle  was  lost  in  the  small  immediate  sounds 
of  the  day's  life. 

In  the  trees  I  look  to  from  my  window,  there 
was  a  great  disturbance  of  birds,  field  birds  and 
forest  birds,  driven  into  the  city  by  the  smoke 
and  thunder  that  possess  their  land. 

My  hospital  is  almost  empty.  In  all  the  wards 
there  are  waiting  rows  of  empty  beds,  a  nightshirt 
folded  on  each  pillow.  Bows  of  empty  beds 
waiting 


225 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


Monday,  July  3rd 

is  a  dark  day,  the  colour  of  battles,  for 
battles  are  not  of  scarlet  and  gold,  only  dark. 
It  is  as  if  the  darkness  of  the  day  and  the 
darkness  of  the  smoke  of  battle  are  terribly  mingled 
together. 


Tuesday,   July   4tK 

people  who  went  to  that  church  were 
•*•  proud,  they  were  very  proud  of  him,  he 
had  died  so  beautifully.  Each  one  of  them  was 
proud  to  say,  "He  was  my  friend,"  or  "I  knew 
his  people,"  or  "I  saw  him  once,"  or  just,  "He 
was  an  American. ' '  He  had  died  for  an  ideal  they 
all  had  sight  of. 

It  was  only  a  memorial  service.  There  were 
only  the  two  flags,  the  flag  of  France  and  the 
Stars  and  Stripes,  in  the  aisle  before  the  altar. 
He  was  lying  somewhere  inside  the  enemy  lines, 
as  he  had  fallen. 

They  of  the  air,  they  go  so  far ;  and  if  they  fall, 
it  is  perhaps  a  little  more  sad  and  lonely  because 
it  may  be  where  no  one  of  their  own  can  go  to 
226 


Wednesday,  July  5th 

them.  Perhaps  the  enemy  have  laid  a  wreath 
there  on  the  place  where  he  fell,  as  they  do 
sometimes,  those  men  of  the  air,  to  honour  one 
another's  memory.  They  say  on  the  inscription 
of  the  wreaths  sometimes:  "To  our  enemy  who 
died  for  his  country/'  For  this  boy  they  would 
need  to  say  another  thing,  "To  our  enemy  who 
died  for  his  ideal."  I  think  that  we,  in  the 
church,  were  not  sorry,  but  were  glad  for  him, 
that  we  were  envying  him — we  who  only  live. 


Invaded   Town,   Wednesday,   July   5th 

'  I A  0-DAY  I  was  shown  a  letter  that  came — I 
•*•  was  not  told  by  what  means — from  one  of 
the  invaded  towns  of  the  North.  It  was  the 
letter  of  a  girl  who  with  her  father  kept  an  old 
book-shop  in  the  Place  de  PEglise.  It  was  written 
to  her  sister,  married  in  Paris,  from  whom  they 
had  had  no  news  since  the  war  began,  but  to 
whom  they  had  managed  to  get  word  through — 
I  do  not  know  how — once  or  twice. 

The  letter,  received  only  yesterday,  was  dated 

January  16.     It  told  of  a  thing  that  had  been 

vaguely  rumoured  here,  that  the  papers  had  not 

mentioned,  and  that  had  passed  for  the  most  part 

227 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

unbelieved.  The  girl  supposed  her  sister  would 
have  heard,  and  would  be  terrified  for  them,  and 
was  anxious  to  let  her  know  that  they  were  safe. 
I  imagine  the  girl  with  a  smooth  blonde  head 
and  grave  blue  eyes,  and  the  father,  thin  and 
stooping,  with  delicate  white  features  and  white 
hair,  and  a  black  skull-cap. 

The  letter  began  by  saying  that  they  were 
very  well,  and  that  the  house  was  but  slightly 
damaged.  Aunt  Emeline  was  with  them,  as  her 
house  was  quite  in  ruins:  she  had  been  got  out 
from  behind  the  falling  of  the  stair  wall.  It  was 
impossible  to  go  to  the  house  of  Cousin  Therese, 
but  she  was  safe  with  the  children  at  the  neigh- 
bour Payen's.  The  whole  family  had  escaped 
miraculously.  The  girl  said  that  in  the  midst  of 
such  terrible  suffering  they  were  ashamed  to 
have  suffered  scarcely  at  all.  It  seemed  as  if 
they  were  not  bearing  their  part  of  the  sacrifice. 

She  had  thought,  that  night,  it  was  the  house 
falling,  and  she  had  leaped  out  of  bed,  thinking 
she  must  go  to  her  father.  The  shock  had  lasted 
ten  seconds.  She  had  had  time  to  get  in  the 
dark  half-way  across  the  rocking  floor,  and  to 
realize  it  was  not  only  the  house  but  the  whole 
city  that  was  rent  and  sundered.  She  had  had 
time  to  think,  "It  must  be  an  earthquake." 

"That  is  what  they  tried,  at  first,  to  say  it 
228 


Wednesday,  July  5th 

was/'  she  wrote,  "an  earthquake.  But  we  know 
that  it  was  an  explosion  brought  about  by  one  of 
us.  It  was  the  Arsenal  and  the  casemates  of  the 
eighteen  bridges  full  of  powder,  between  the  three 
chief  gates  of  the  town,  that  were  blown  up.  It 
was  one  of  their  most  important  depots  of  muni- 
tions, where  they  had  stored  enough  powder 
and  high  explosives  to  feed  their  Northern  army 
for  ten  months.  No  one  knows  who  did  it.  They 
have  posted  up  offers  of  high  reward  for  any  one 
who  finds  the  author  of  what  they  now  call  'the 
criminal  accident.' 

"In  all  the  towns  of  the  North,  where  windows 
were  broken  and  doors  torn  out  of  their  frames, 
and  where  it  was  at  first  thought  to  be  an 
earthquake,  they  have  now  put  up  posters  on 
the  walls,  in  their  language  and  ours,  demanding 
information  about  the  *  criminal.' 

"But  even  if  there  are  some  who  know,  not  one 
will  betray.  Moreover,  he  is  surely  safe  from 
betrayal,  dead  and  buried  somewhere  under 
the  ruins  he  himself  caused  for  the  sake  of  his 
country." 

The  letter  went  on  to  tell  of  the  town  so 
sacrificed:  streets  and  quarters  destroyed  entirely, 
not  a  house  anywhere  but  was  more  or  less  injured, 
the  least  harmed  streets  deep  in  broken  glass  and 
blocked  with  fallen  tiles  and  stones.  The  whole 
229 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

town  was  become  a  place  of  homeless  and  wounded 
and  dead. 

The  young  girl  kept  repeating  that  no  one 
complained;  it  was  for  the  sake  of  their  country. 
The  homeless  people  in  the  streets  said  to  one 
another,  "It  is  less  than  our  soldiers  suffer  in  the 
trenches. ' ' 

She  wrote  of  things  she  had  seen  in  that  night : 
a  father  carrying  his  boy,  of  perhaps  fifteen  years, 
in  his  arms,  not  believing  he  was  dead;  a  woman 
they  could  not  get  near,  under  the  ruins,  alive, 
her  child  killed  beside  her;  a  woman  gone  mad, 
running  in  the  streets,  shrieking  a  man's  name; 
another  woman,  running  also,  with  her  baby  in 
her  arms,  begging  every  one  she  met  to  mend  it, 
for  its  head  had  been  cut  off. 

All  the  less  unhappy  people  had  taken  in  the 
homeless;  of  the  inhabitants  of  all  the  ruined 
houses,  by  the  next  night  less  than  fifty  were  left 
to  the  care  of  the  town. 

The  girl  wrote:  "The  people  of  the  town  are 
admirable,  the  homeless*  with  the  rest;  we  know 
that  the  sacrifice  is  for  our  country,  and  we  make 
it  gladly.  The  terrible  suffering  of  the  town  is 
offered  up  for  victory  and  peace. " 

She  went  on  to  tell  of  little  things :  ' '  Your  room 
we  have  given  to  a  mother  with  three  babies;  I 
have  Aunt  Emeline  with  me,  sleeping  in  father's 
230 


Wednesday,  July  5th 

room,  for  mine  is  not  safe — the  roof  of  the  next 
house  has  fallen  against  its  roof.  Father  sleeps 
in  the  room  behind  the  shop,  and  in  the  shop  we 
have  found  place  to  take  in  ten  of  the  destitute. 
The  shock  threw  most  of  the  books  out  of  their 
cases,  and  loosened  the  cases  from  the  walls,  so 
that  we  have  had  to  prop  them  up.  The  books  are 
heaped  out  of  the  way  of  the  mattresses  of  the 
homeless.  I  thought  father  would  worry  about 
the  books;  you  know,  he  has  always  felt  them 
to  be  live  things ;  but  he  has  no  thought  for  them. 
He  is  in  the  Place  all  day,  trying  to  help  clear 
away  the  glass  and  stones.  The  tower  of  the 
church  has  fallen  all  across  the  Place.  All  the 
windows  in  the  town  are  broken,  and  there  is  no 
glass  to  be  had  for  mending  them.  We  live  behind 
paper  windows,  in  a  gloom  that  does  depress 
one." 

The  letter  went  from  one  subject  to  another, 
nervously  and  rather  confusedly.  She  told  of 
immense  blocks  of  stone,  hurled  from  great 
distances  into  the  streets;  of  the  fronts  of  houses 
ripped  out,  and  the  stories  dropped  or  sagging; 
of  Aunt  Emetine's  poor  little  belongings  all 
lost — the  portrait  of  great-grandfather;  how 

the  enormous  factories  of and had 

served  as  a  screen  to  protect  the  town,  or  else  it 

had  been  destroyed   completely;   of   one   of  the 

231 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

little  homeless  children  in  the  book-shop  who 
kept  all  the  time  saying  her  prayers,  "  Little  Jesus, 
stay  with  us;  little  Jesus,  stay  with  us,"  and  how 
her  name  was  Ceeilette;  of  the  bitter  cold  that 
made  it  all  more  cruel;  and,  always,  how  they 
were  proud  to  offer  up  the  sacrifice  for  their 
country.  She  sent  her  love,  and  her  father's, 
always  more  and  more  tenderly.  It  seemed  as  if 
their  love  for  Mariette,  of  whom  they  had  no 
word,  increased  every  day.  She  kept  saying 
over  and  over  how  proud  the  town  was,  to  have 
made  the  sacrifice;  and  what  a  brave  thing  for, 
perhaps,  one  man  alone  to  have  brought  about. 


That  Naughty  Little  Boy 

TT  was  that  naughty  little  boy  who  was  killed, 
•*•  to  whose  funeral  she  went  this  morning  in  the 
church  of  St.  Augustin.  That  naughty  little  boy 
— grown  up,  wandered  far,  always  a  "bad  case," 
come  home  because  there  was  war,  and  gone  out 
with  the  rest — is  dead  magnificently. 

He  was  shot  down  leading  an  attack  upon  the 
works  of  Thiaumont;  they  say  his  men  would 
have  followed  him  anywhere.  Think  of  that 
naughty  little  boy,  grown  up  to  become  a  leader 
men  were  proud  to  follow  unto  death! 
232 


That  Naughty  Little  Boy 

He  used  to  pull  her  hair,  and  pinch  her,  and 
make  faces  to  frighten  her  until  she  cried.  His 
Miss  never  could  manage  him.  His  Miss  and 
hers  were  friends,  as  were  his  mother  and  her 
mother,  and  she  was  obliged  to  play  with  him. 
She  was  terrified  of  him,  but  he  had  wonderful 
toys  that  she  adored,  especially  the  popgun  and 
rocking-horses.  Sometimes  when  he  was  being 
punished,  she  was  left  alone  with  his  toys,  and 
was  happy.  Sometimes  he  would  be  nice  for  a 
minute,  and  want  to  kiss  and  make  up,  and  let 
her  ride  the  big  rocking-horse. 

She  was  remembering  it  all  this  morning  in  the 
church. 

Through  all  the  years  between  she  had  never 
seen  him,  and  for  her  he  was  still  the  bad  little 
boy.  It  was  the  big  rocking-horse  she  was 
particularly  remembering  in  the  church. 

There  was  a  crowd  in  the  church.  There  was 
a  whole  firmament  of  candles;  the  church  was 
hung  with  flags,  and  full  of  flowers.  The  tricolour 
and  the  palms  were  laid  upon  his  bier.  And 
upon  the  bier  also  there  was  laid  his  blue  cap 
and  jacket,  stained  and  faded  and  torn  by  shell, 
and  his  Croix  de  Guerre  and  Legion  d'Honneur. 

There  were  all  his  people  in  the  church,  mourn- 
ing for  him.  For  years  none  of  them  had  seen  him 
or  spoken  of  him.  But  now  they  were  all  come 
233 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

to  do  him  honour.  The  world,  that  had  turned  a 
cold  shoulder  on  him,  was  come  to  kneel  beside 
his  blue  jacket  and  his  medals. 

She  remembered  vaguely  hearing  something 
about  some  woman  he  had  loved,  and  who  had 
loved  him,  for  whom  he  had  been  exiled.  She 
wondered  if  that  woman  had  been  in  the  church, 
that  woman  who  could  have  no  place  among  his 
people.  If  she  were  there,  it  must  have  been  in 
the  dusk  of  some  aisle  chapel,  apart  and  alone. 

Naughty  little  boy,  despair  of  every  governess; 
mauvais  sujet,  who  had  erred  so  far  out  of  the 
paths  of  his  world;  soldier  of  France,  who  fought 
and  led  and  fell — there  he  had  lain  in  state, 
honoured  of  all,  under  his  flag  and  palms. 

Now  it  is  over,  the  bad  and  the  good  of  it,  and 
of  all  is  left  only  the  blue  cap  and  jacket,  and 
the  medals  of  war. 


Little   Mild    Gentleman 

little   mild    gentleman    of   teacups   and 
cakes — so  useful  when  there  were  people  who 
simply  had  to  be  asked — always  ready  to  fill  a 
place,  considerate  of  old  ladies — of  course,  they 
did  not  want  him  at  the  Front.     He  had  rather 
234 


Gossip 

bad  lungs,  or  something,  and  was  shortsighted  at 
that ;  it  was  absurd  of  him  even  to  try  to  get  out — 
no  army  doctor  would  pass  him. 

After  months  and  months  of  effort,  he  at  last 
succeeded  in  getting  himself  taken  on  for  ammuni- 
tion work  and  the  making  of  poison  gases. 

Somebody  met  him  the  other  day,  strutting 
along  in  his  blue  coat  and  red  trousers.  Very 
hurried  and  important,  he  had  yet  to  stop  and 
tell  all  about  it,  his  tea-party  manner  quite 
vanished  away,  his  shortsighted  eyes  no  longer 
mild. 

"It  is  I  who  tell  you,"  he  said,  "I  who  know 
well,  there  will  not  a  single  one  of  them  be  left 
alive  within  miles  and  miles  of  this  new  stuff 
we  are  making." 


Gossip 

CJINCE  his  death  she  has  been  nursing  in  a 
^  typhus  hospital,  somewhere  just  behind 
the  lines.  It  is  now  more  than  ten  months.  No 
one  has  seen  her,  scarcely  any  one  has  heard  from 
her.  Some  people  say  that  she  is  doing  "won- 
derful work"  and  some  people  say  that  it  is  all 
pose,  and  some  people  say  that  she  has  an  affair 
235 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

with  the  chief  doctor  of  the  hospital,  or  is  it  with 
the  maire  of  the  town?  No  one  has  seen  her,  but 
every  one  says  she  has  lost  her  looks. 

She  used  to  be  very  pretty,  and  a  great  favourite 
in  the  world.  She  looked  absurdly  like  her  two 
babies. 

The  babies  are  at  the  chateau  with  their 
grandmother,  his  mother,  who  is  an  invalid — two 
lovely  cherubs  at  the  age  of  Russian  blouses. 

The  house  off  the  Avenue  du  Bois,  that  used  to 
be  one  of  the  most  charming  in  Paris,  has  been 
closed  since  the  war. 

He  enlisted  when  the  war  broke  out,  as  a  com- 
mon soldier  of  infantry.  It  certainly  was  chic  of 
him,  for  he  was  reforme  because  of  some  grave 
enough  trouble  of  the  heart,  and  he  might  easily 
have  kept  out  of  it  all,  or  have  got  something 
showy  but  not  dangerous.  However,  he  took  a 
humble  place,  and  his  share  of  great  hardship. 
He  had  been  accustomed  all  his  life  to  everything 
that  belongs  to  wealth  and  rank,  and  his  share 
of  the  burden  must  have  been  very  heavy  for 
him. 

People  said:  How  proud  of  him  she  must  be. 
He  had  always  been  thought  a  little  dull,  a  dear 
boy,  but  perhaps  a  little  dull ;  one  would  not  have 
dreamed  he  had  it  in  him. 

People   said:   They  had   always  been  such  a 
236 


Gossip 

devoted  couple,  an  ideal  young  couple.  How  sad 
it  would  be  if  anything  happened  to  him. 

In  spite  of  the  difficulties  due  to  his  being 
reforme,  he  got  out  at  last  to  the  Front.  He  was 
wounded  only  a  short  time  after,  not  in  any 
attack,  or  with  any  glory,  but  in  bringing  up  the 
comrades'  soup  to  the  trenches.  It  was  a  shell 
wound  in  the  thigh,  not  especially  dangerous. 
He  was  invalided  straight  through  to  Paris,  to 
one  of  the  big  city  hospitals,  and  put,  of  course, 
in  the  ward  with  other  common  soldiers. 

It  was  a  moment  of  terrible  crowding  of  the 
hospitals:  doctors  and  nurses  were  overworked; 
there  was  necessarily  much  confusion.  It  was 
no  one's  fault,  perhaps,  only  the  inevitableness  of 
things,  that  for  three  days  the  Surgeon  Major 
had  no  time  himself  to  attend  to  the  less  badly 
wounded. 

The  man  with  the  wound  in  the  thigh  asked 
nothing  of  any  one.  He  did  not  even  ask,  they 
say,  to  have  his  people  sent  for. 

They  were  all  down  at  the  chateau;  it  was  only 
after  forty-eight  hours  that  they  got  word  of 
what  had  happened  to  him  and  where  he 
was. 

His  wife  came  up  to  town.  His  mother,  of 
course,  was  not  able  to  come,  and  it  had  not 
seemed  worth  while  to  bring  the  little  boys, 

237 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

That  was  when  he  had  been  for  two  days  in  the 
hospital. 

Here  is  a  part  of  the  thing  that  people  say  they 
do  not  understand. 

It  seems  as  if  his  wife  might  have  had  him 
moved  out  of  the  common  ward.  It  is  a  little 
dreadful  to  think  of  him  there,  who  had  always 
been  used  to  so  much  luxury — among  the  grey 
blankets,  the  coarse  grey  sheets,  the  beds  and 
stretcher-beds  crowded  together,  a  bottle  of  the 
hospital  champagne  on  the  night-table,  the  black 
man  in  the  next  bed  screaming.  She  might,  it 
would  seem,  have  had  in  their  own  doctor,  or  any 
one  of  the  big  doctors.  She  surely  might  have 
got  permission  to  stay  in  the  ward  and  sit  by  him 
the  night  he  died. 

He  died  the  night  after  the  operation.  They 
had  amputated  too  late.  It  was  only  the  third 
day  that  the  chief  saw  him.  They  amputated 
next  morning,  and  he  died  in  the  night. 

In  that  hospital  they  do  not  put  a  screen  about 
the  bed  of  one  who  dies. 

If  only  some  one  had  done  something  while 
there  was  time.  It  seems  such  a  sad  waste  of  a 
life,  and  such  a  dreary  end.  You  see  he  had 
had  no  glory.  It  was  for  bringing  up  the  com- 
rades' soup  that  he  had  died.  There  were  no 
medals  to  be  left  after  him,  with  his  blue  coat  and 

238 


Gossip 

his  cap.  I  suppose  there  was  just  one  of  those 
coarse  grey  sheets  drawn  up  over  him  till  they 
carried  him  out  of  the  ward. 

Some  people  say  he  did  not  want  to  live. 
But  then  he  was  probably  too  ill  to  concern 
himself  much  about  anything.  Some  people  say 
his  wife  did  not  want  him  to  live.  But  then  she 
may  have  been  too  confused  and  stunned  to  be 
able  to  concern  herself  about  anything.  Some 
people  say  she  loved  another  man,  and  some 
people  say  he  loved  another  woman. 

"Well,  from  him  no  one  will  ever  know.  It 
appears  also  as  if  no  one  were  likely  ever  to  know 
from  her. 

And  now,  no  one  sees  her  or  hears  from  her  any 
more. 

His  mother,  who  for  a  time  would  not 
speak  of  her,  says  now  only  that  her  devotion  in 
the  typhus  hospital  is  wonderful,  and  her  self- 
sacrifice;  that  she  renders  incalculable  service 
there,  and  is  above  all  praise. 

That  much  is  true. 

And  people  give  all  sorts  of  different,  amazing 
reasons  for  it. 

They  all  agree,  however,  upon  one  point — that 
she  has  lost  her  looks  completely. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 


Smoke 

O  UDDENLY,  as  the  motor  was  passing  the 
^  Place  de  la  Concorde,  Valerie  said,  "  Would 
you  mind  if  we  just  went  home?  I  should  like 
to  go  home.7' 

Of  course  Nanette  could  only  say  that  she  did 
not  mind. 

Valerie  had  invited  her  to  drive  in  the  Bois  and 
have  tea  at  the  little  chalet  of  gaufres,  by  the 
gate  of  the  Pre  Catelan;  she  had  her  mother's 
motor  car  for  the  afternoon,  and  they  need  not 
take  anybody  with  them.  Nanette  had  thought 
it  would  be  such  fun,  just  the  two  of  them,  without 
governesses  or  maids.  She  had  been  looking 
forward  to  it  for  days. 

Nanette  was  still  in  the  schoolroom,  whereas 
Valerie,  nearly  two  years  older,  had  escaped  from 
all  that.  The  younger  girl  admired  Valerie 
immensely.  They  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  one 
another  three  years  before  in  a  summer  at  Dinard. 
Then  the  difference  between  their  ages  had 
mattered  less;  but  now,  dividing  the  school- 
room girl  with  her  hair  just  tied  back  from  the  girl 
who  would  have  been  going  out  if  war  had  not 
ended  the  world,  it  invested  Valerie  with  a 
240 


Smoke 

glamour  of  romance  for  the  little  Nanette.  The 
romance,  moreover,  was  heightened  by  the  fact 
that  people  talked  rather  much  of  the  older  girl 
and  coupled  her  name  most  unhappily  with  that 
of  a  man  she  never  could  marry,  who  was  proving 
himself  to  be  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  war. 

Nanette  would  have  been  very  proud  to  have 
had  tea  in  the  Bois  with  her  beautiful  friend. 
She  said  she  did  not  mind  turning  back,  but 
she  did  mind  rather.  She  thought  it  odd 
indeed  of  Valerie  to  change  like  that.  And 
Valerie's  way  of  saying  it  was  so  odd,  as  if  she  had 
been  all  the  time  trying  to  keep  it  back  and  could 
not. 

Valerie  spoke  through  the  tube  to  the  chauffeur, 
and  he  turned  the  car. 

She,  Valerie,  talked  much  and  fast  as  they  went 
back  to  the  rue  de  Varennes,  but  she  did  not  tell 
why  she  had  changed  her  mind  so  suddenly. 

The  court  of  the  old  hotel  seemed  more  than 
usually  boring  and  solemn  to  Nanette,  and  also 
the  dim  grave  stairway.  She  would  rather  have 
had  tea  in  the  salon  of  the  peacock  tapestries, 
but  Valerie  told  the  old  man-servant  to  bring  it 
up  to  her  little  sitting-room. 

She  went  in  at  her  own  door  ahead  of  Nanette, 
and  looked  about  her  as  if  for  something  she 
expected  to  find  in  the  room.  She  seemed  so 
241 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

odd  that  Nanette  just  stood  back  against  the  door 
watching  her. 

After  quite  a  minute  Valerie  turned  to  her  and 
said,  "Tell  me,  does  it  not  seem  to  you  that 
there  is  smoke  in  the  room?" 

The  room  was  full  of  the  afternoon  July  sun- 
shine. The  window  that  gave  on  to  the  garden 
was  open.  There  were  some  arum  lilies  in  a  vase, 
and  their  fragrance  was  heavy  in  the  sunshine. 

"Why,  no,"  said  Nanette,  "there  is  no  smoke 
here." 

Valerie  began  moving  about  the  room  aim- 
lessly. As  she  moved  here  and  there  she  was 
taking  off  her  long  suede  gloves  that  Nanette 
admired. 

"It  is  very  queer,"  she  said,  never  looking 
at  Nanette,  "but  for  days,  three  days,  it  has 
seemed  to  me  all  the  time  that  my  room  was  full 
of  smoke.  I  see  it  and  smell  it.  At  first  I  thought 
something  must  be  burning  somewhere.  But 
there  was  nothing.  Besides,  it  is  not  that  sort 
of  smoke.  It  is  the  smoke  of  gunpowder." 

She  had  thrown  her  gloves  down  on  a  chair, 
and  was  taking  off  her  hat.  She  pulled  the  pins 
out  of  it,  one  after  the  other,  and  took  it  off,  and 
thrust  the  pins  back  into  it.  "It  is  quite  different 
from  other  smoke,"  she  said,  "there  is  no  doubting 
what  it  is." 

242 


Smoke 

"Gunpowder  smoke!    Oh,  but  Valerie " 

Valerie  went  on,  "Sometimes  the  smoke  is  so 
thick  in  the  room  that  I  cannot  make  my  way 
about;  it  burns  my  eyes  most  dreadfully,  it  gets 
into  my  throat  and  chokes  me,  it  makes  me  cry." 
She  tossed  her  hat  into  the  chair  with  her  gloves, 
and  turned  to  the  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece, 
and  stood  with  her  hands  up,  fluffing  out  her 
lovely  gold  hair.  "It  is  not  only  that  I  cry  be- 
cause I  am  frightened,"  she  said,  "it  is  also  that 
the  smoke  actually  hurts  my  throat  and  eyes." 

Nanette,  standing  behind  her,  could  see  her 
face  in  the  mirror  and  thought  it  was  become 
curiously  stiff  and  dull.  Valerie 's  lovely  face, 
usually  so  full  of  expression,  had  become  quite 
blank. 

It  was  dreadful.  The  younger  girl  was  afraid 
of — she  did  not  know  what.  She  could  think  of 
nothing  that  would  have  been  of  any  use  to  say. 
She  knew  the  older  girl  was  telling  her  this  thing 
only  because  she  had  to  tell  it  to  some  one. 

"You  see,"  Valerie  continued,  "that  is  why  I 
wanted  to  come  home.  I  cannot  bear  to  be  long 
away  from  my  room,  because  I  am  so  afraid  of 
missing  the  moment."  She  had  turned  back 
from  the  mirror,  and  stood  looking  past  Nanette. 

"The  moment?"  Nanette  repeated,  as  she 
did  not  go  on. 

243 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

"Yes,  the  moment  when  the  smoke  will  lift. 
It  is  every  time  more  dense.  There  will  be  a  time 
when  it  quite,  quite  blinds  me,  and  then  I  shall 
see."  She  sat  down  in  the  chair  that  was  nearest 
her.  She  sat  limply,  leaning  back  against  the 
cushions,  her  hands  lying  loosely  together  in  her  lap. 

Nanette  had  been  standing  all  the  time  just 
inside  the  door.  Now  she  came  nearer,  but  not 
quite  close,  and  she  did  not  sit  down.  It  was  as 
if  there  were  something  encircling  Valerie 
and  keeping  every  one  and  everything  apart 
from  her.  Nanette  thought  of  the  spells  cast 
about  fairy-tale  princesses,  a  circle  of  magic 
drawn  around,  that  no  one  could  step  across. 

Valerie  sat  rigid,  her  eyes  staring.  The  clock 
on  the  chimney  began  to  strike  five. 

Nanette  sprang  forward.  "Valerie,  Valerie, 
what  is  the  matter  1"  But  Valerie  did  not  hear 
her. 

Nanette  caught  her  hand.  It  was  icy  cold. 
"Valerie,  Valerie !"  She  let  the  cold  hand  go, 
and  touched  her  cheek. 

But  Valerie  did  not  feel  the  touch. 

Nanette  flew  to  the  door  and  opened  it  and 
called  into  the  passage,  "Jeanne-Marie,  Jeanne- 
Marie!" 

The  old  Bretonne  nurse  came  instantly  out  from 
her  door  down  the  passage. 
244 


Smoke 

"Jeanne-Marie,  quick,  something  has  happened 
to  mademoiselle." 

The  old  woman  passed  her,  and  was  beside 
Valerie.  "God  and  the  saints!  It  has  came 
again  V  she  cried.  She  put  her  arms  about 
Valerie  and  the  girl  fell  stiffly  against  her  shoulder. 
"Oh,  my  lamb,  my  little  lamb!" 

"Is  she  dead?"  implored  Nanette.  "Jeanne- 
Marie,  is  she  dead?" 

"No,  no,  it  has  happened  before.  Go  call 
Francine,  quick." 

The  maid  was  already  at  the  door;  she  must 
have  heard  the  excited  voices. 

The  old  nurse  said  to  the  maid,  "Help  me  get 
her  to  the  sofa."  To  Nanette  she  said,  "Go  away, 
mademoiselle ;  you  must  go  away. ' ' 

Nanette  besought,  "No,  oh,  no!" 

But  the  maid  said,  "Please,  mademoiselle, 
Jeanne-Marie  knows,"  and  pushed  her  out  of  the 
room  as  if  she  had  been  a  child. 

Nanette,  terribly  frightened,  waited  outside  in 
the  passage,  walking  up  and  down. 

After  a  long  while  Francine  came  and  told  her 
that  mademoiselle  was  herself  again,  but  very 
tired  and  must  rest. 

From  her  own  home,  an  hour  later,  Nanette 
telephoned,  and  was  told  that  mademoiselle  was 
asleep. 

245 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  next  day  Valerie  sent  asking  her  to  come 
about  five  o'clock. 

Nanette  was  taken  first  to  Valerie's  mother,  in 
the  drawing-room. 

The  marquise  was  as  stately  and  frigid  as 
usual,  dressed  for  the  street,  rather  hurried  and 
most  difficult  to  talk  to. 

She  told  Nanette  that  she  was  troubled  about 
the  fright  she  must  have  had  yesterday,  and 
asked  her  not  to  speak  to  any  one  of  what  had 
occurred.  She  looked  at  Nanette  through  her 
tortoiseshell  lorgnon,  and  asked  if  Valerie  had 
been  talking  to  her  of  anything  in  particular 
before  she  fainted.  "Had  she  been  agitating 
herself  with  any  special  confidences?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  faltered  Nanette,  wondering. 

The  marquise  went  on  to  explain  that  Valerie 
was  very  much  run  down  just  now  and  nervous, 
and,  in  these  last  days,  had  had  one  or  two 
fainting  spells,  such  as  that  of  yesterday,  but  less 
grave.  She  again  asked  Nanette  not  to  speak  of 
it.  She  appeared  more  concerned  about  people 
knowing  of  it,  and  about  something  she  evidently 
feared  Nanette  might  have  imagined,  than  about 
what  had  happened  to  Valerie. 

Nanette  was  anxious  only  to  get  to  Val6rie, 
who  wanted  her. 

She  found  a  little  white  Valerie  snuggled  down 
246 


Smoke 

in  the  pillows  of  the  big  rose-hung  bed.  She 
seemed  very  quiet  and  rested,  not  strange  as 
she  had  been  yesterday,  only  tired.  Her  brown 
eyes  looked  bigger  than  ever,  dark-circled,  and 
her  golden  hair  was  very  soft  and  curly  about  her 
face,  like  a  child's  hair. 

She  made  Nanette  sit  close  to  her,  and  held 
her  hand  while  she  told  her  stange  things,  as  if 
they  were  not  strange  at  all. 

When  she  spoke  of  yesterday  it  was  as  if  she 
were  speaking  of  something  that  happened  very 
long  ago.  "I  ought  not  to  have  brought  you 
home  with  me,"  she  said,  "but  you  see  I  was 
afraid  then.  I  was  afraid  to  be  alone.  I  knew 
the  smoke  was  going  to  lift,  I  knew  I  was  going 
to  be  shown  something,  and  I  was  afraid  to  go 
through  it  alone.  Old  Jeanne-Marie  is  a  darling, 
but  she  is  different,  of  course.  And  mother 
would  have  been  so  annoyed  if  I  had  spoken  of 
him.  Mother  has  known  all  the  time  how  un- 
happy we  were,  you  see,  and  was  always  awfully 
annoyed  about  it." 

Nanette,  half  understanding,  could  only  say, 
as  Valerie  paused,  "I  am  so  frightened  about 
you." 

"Poor  Nanette!  You  must  not  be  frightened, 
for  I  am  not  frightened  any  more.  It  is  all  going 
to  be  well,  very  soon.  Only  I  have  got  to  tell 
247 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

you  about  it,  because  I  am  so  lonely.  I  must 
tell  some  one.  I  am  not  a  bit  unhappy  any 
more,  but  just  to-day  lonely.  I  have  got  to  tell 
you,  though  it  is  selfish  of  me. ' ' 

"I  love  you  to  tell  me,  please,  Valerie/' 

"I  was  terribly  unhappy,"  Valerie  went  on, 
"when  I  thought  it  was  only  he  who  would  die. 
I  knew,  the  moment  I  realized  it  was  gunpowder 
smoke,  that  he  was  going  to  be  killed.  I  knew 
that  the  smoke  would  lift  for  me  when  the  moment 
came,  and  that  then  I  should  see  him  die." 

"Valerie,  oh,  Valerie!" 

"But  you  need  not  be  sad  for  me,  Nanette, 
because  there  is  a  thing  I  know  that  makes 
it  all  quite  beautiful  and  right."  She  lifted 
herself  up  from  the  pillows,  still  holding  Nanette's 
hand;  the  two  heavy  gold  braids  of  her 
hair  fell  over  her  shoulders.  "You  see,  we 
never  could  have  been  happy  together,  he  and 
I,"  she  said,  "there  would  have  been  nothing  but 
unhappiness  for  us  both,  always.  I  must  tell 
you  what  I  saw.  I  must  have  some  one  know, 
and  you  seem  to  understand  things.  You  will  not 
speak  of  it,  till  afterwards.  And  now,  as  I  am 
telling  you,  you  will  not  interrupt  me,  will  you? 
You  will  not  say  any  of  the  things  most  people 
would  say,  to  break  into  my  peace?"  She 
stopped  and  waited,  looking  at  Nanette  intensely. 
248 


Smoke 

Nanette  could  not  speak  at  all. 

But  Valerie  must  have  understood,  for  she  told 
it.  She  told  it  always  quietly,  as  if  she  had 
passed  beyond  any  shock  or  grief  or  sense  of  its 
strangeness:  "The  smoke  was  all  about  him^  and 
about  them;  he  and  they  had  to  fight  blindly. 
They  fought  with  bayonets*  It  was  in  the  street  of 
a  village;  I  saw  the  cobbles  under  his  feet,  and 
a  broken  doorstep.  He  fought  and  fought.  It 
seemed  very  long;  he  was  quite  alone  to  fight 
against  so  many  of  them.  There  were  blue  heaps 
behind  him  on  the  cobbles;  I  could  make  out  just 
vaguely  through  the  smoke.  I  think  they  were 
his  comrades,  wounded  and  dead.  The  others, 
the  grey  ones,  were  too  many.  I  saw  their  grey 
shapes  and  their  bayonets,  and  his  wounds.  I 
saw  his  face,  just  as  he  went  down.  His  face  was 
all  alight,  as  it  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him. "  Her 
own  eyes  were  shining  when  she  stopped,  and  her 
voice  was  like  a  singing. 

In  the  quiet  of  the  room  Nanette  waited,  as 
if  there  were  some  spell  she  was  afraid  to 
break. 

Valerie  told  her:  "The  last  time  I  saw  him 
was  when  he  went  out,  nearly  two  years  ago.  I 
knew  the  station  he  would  be  passing  through, 
with  just  some  minutes  there;  and  I  went,  and 
for  him.  I  did  not  care  if  people  knew.  I 
249 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

ran  to  him  in  the  crowd,  and  he  saw  me,  and  he 
said,  'Why,  my  Valerie,  it  is  you!'  as  if  there 
were  a  miracle.  In  my  vision,  his  face  was  just 
as  it  had  been  then.  There  was  no  sound  at  all 
in  my  vision,  but  from  his  face,  as  he  died,  I  knew 
he  was  saying,  'Why,  my  Valerie,  it  is  you!'  : 
Her  warm,  live  hand  held  Nanette's  hand  steadily. 
"I  know  that  I  shall  go  to  meet  him,  that  I  shall 
be  waiting  for  him  when  he  dies ;  I  know,  Nanette. 
I  know  because  of  the  look  there  was  in  his  face.  I 
shall  be  waiting  there,  and  he  shall  see  me.  And  so 
I  have  no  grief  or  fear. ' '  She  was  patting  Nanette 's 
hand  to  comfort  her.  "Is  not  it  strange, 
Nanette;  to-day  I  have  a  letter  from  him,  a  sad 
letter.  And  I  have  written  him  a  happy  one, 
and  he  will  not  understand  why  at  all.  He  does 
not  know  how  soon  we  will  be  together.  I 
cannot  tell  him.  And  I  am  lonely  waiting,  now 
I  know.  Nanette,  I  am  so  glad  that  it  is  I  who 
will  go  first." 

Perhaps,  when  she  is  older,  Nanette  will  have 
to  wonder  if  there  was  something  she  might  have 
done. 

But  nothing  would  have  made  any  difference. 

In  the  next  days  they  had  many  doctors.  But 
none  of  the  doctors  knew  what  it  was,  or  could  do 
anything. 

A  week  from  the   day  when  the  smoke  had 
250 


Hospital,  Saturday,  July  8th 

lifted,  Nanette  sent  arum  lilies  for  old  Jeanne- 
Marie  to  put  into  Valerie's  hands. 

And  three  days  after  that,  the  man  Valerie 
never  could  have  married  was  killed. 

He  had  gone  down,  it  was  known  afterwards, 
in  house-to-house  fighting,  in  a  street  of  the 
village  of  X . 


Hospital,   Saturday,  July  8th 

OOME  new  ones  are  arrived  from  the  Somme, 
*^  only  ten  for  my  ward,  the  orderly  told  me  at 
the  gate.  They  were  brought  in  at  four  o'clock 
this  morning.  The  orderly,  Hamond,  said, 
"They  are  nothing  so  bad  as  the  Verduns." 

When  I  came  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  Madame 
Marthe  was  in  the  corridor,  waiting  for  Madame 
Bayle  to  come  and  unlock  the  linen-press.  She 
looked  very  tired  already,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  day,  and  she  was  walking  up  and  down 
between  the  stairs  and  the  door  of  our  ward,  not 
able  to  keep  still  for  a  minute. 

She  told  them  off  on  her  small  fine  fingers, 
stained  with  iodine:  "Two  heads,  one  of  them 
has  a  bad  leg- wound  also;  one  ampute  of  the 
arm,  infected;  two  of  the  leg,  infected  both  of 
them;  two  faces;  a  bad  chest- wound,  bullet; 
251 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

other  two  slight.  Zut!  that  Madame  Bayle,  will 
she  never  come!  Kun  over  to  the  storehouse 
and  tell  them  I  have  got  to  have  tubes  and  funnels 
to  feed  the  9  and  14.  See  that  they  give  them 
to  you,  whatever  fuss  they  make,  tell  them  it  is 
for  very  bad  faces.  Quick  now,  the  chief  has 
been  around,  and  they  are  going  to  trepan  the 
worst  head  this  morning. " 


Hospital,   Sunday,  July  pth 

/TT*HE  man  they  trepanned  yesterday  will  not 
•*•  keep  still;  he  worries  about  everything. 
They  say  he  is  doing  well,  but  he  talks  all  the 
time.  They  told  me  to  sit  by  him  and  try  to 
make  him  stay  quiet.  At  first  he  held  my  hand 
and  seemed  to  rest,  but  he  would  not  shut  his 
eyes,  and  after  a  little  he  began  to  talk  again. 

He  was  worried  because  he  thought  I  had  not 
enough  to  eat;  he  thought,  because  I  was  so  thin, 
that  I  must  be  very  poor.  He  said  he  had  some 
biscuits  and  some  rillettes  de  Tours  done  up 
together  in  a  piece  of  newspaper.  The  package 
had  been  in  his  musette  when  he  went  into  the 
charge.  "Where  was  his  musette?  He  would 
have  me  go  and  find  it,  and  eat  the  biscuits,  and 
252 


Monday,  July  10th 

the  rillettes  de  Tours.  He  worried  because  he 
had  fallen  back  into  a  trench  deep  with  water, 
and  the  newspaper  package  might  have  got  wet. 
But  I  must  not  mind  that,  he  said,  it  was  better 
than  starving.  What  had  they  done  with  his 
musette?  I  must  go  and  get  it.  And  I  must 
not  mind  taking  his  biscuits  and  rillettes  de 
Tours,  for  he  was  not  hungry  at  all. 


Monday,   July    loth 

A  LL  day  long  there  has  been  sunshine,  and  the 
**  sky  has  been  blue.  There  were  great  white 
clouds  that  mounted  up  over  the  city,  and  that 
one  kept  imagining  was  the  smoke  of  battle. 
The  blue  of  the  sky  was  wonderful,  infinite  and 
near,  like  something  of  music  or  of  religion,  and 
the  sunshine  was  like  golden  wine.  But  those 
soft  white  puffs  of  cloud  were  terrible. 

At  the  top  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  behind  the 
Arch,  the  clouds  were  driven  up  as  if  it  were 
from  the  mouths  of  cannon. 

It  must  be  just  like  that  the  smoke  is  rising 
in  the  sunshine  over  the  high  edge  of  a  field 
I  used  to  know.  They  say  that  field  is  laid 
across  everywhere  with  railroad  tracks,  along 
which  monster  grey  cannon  crawl  up  to  their 

253 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

positions,  and  crawl  back  across  again  when 
their  work  is  done.  Hundreds  of  horses  are 
corralled  in  the  field,  and  everywhere  there  are 
dotted  little  white  tents.  Sometimes  black  faces 
come  to  the  openings  of  the  tents,  and  one  would 
think  of  the  Village  Negre  people  went  to  see  in 
Magic  City,  ages  and  ages  ago. 

It  seems  strange  that  when  the  great  white 
clouds  mounted  up  from  behind  the  Arch  of 
Triumph,  the  city  did  not  rock  beneath  them. 
It  seems  strange  that  the  great  white  clouds  rose 
silently  and  really  were  only  clouds. 


Thursday,  July  i3th 

PEOPLE  in  the  streets  go  slowly,  looking  up  at 
-•"  the  flags,  and  stopping  to  stand.  They 
speak  to  one  another  wherever  they  happen  to  be 
standing  together,  and  say  that  they  hope 
to-morrow  will  be  a  fine  day. 

The  streets  are  getting  ready  for  to-monow, 
hanging  out  flags  and  streamers  and  garlands  to 
the  breeze  that  is  strong  to-day,  and  to  the 
comings  and  goings  of  sunshine.  Grey  minutes 
and  gold  minutes  follow  one  another  across  the 
city,  where  the  flags  of  the  different  nations  are 
blending  their  colours  and  waving  all  together. 
254 


Thursday,  July  13th 

Many  different  uniforms,  on  their  way  up  and 
down  the  streets,  salute  one  another,  and  stop 
and  linger  about  together,  looking  at  their  flags. 

The  streets  are  full  of  bandages  and  crutches, 
pinned-up  trouser-legs  and  pinned-up  coat-sleeves, 
steps  that  halt  along  with  tap  of  canes,  and 
shuffling,  uncertain  steps  that  must  be  led. 

One  is  always  coming  in  the  streets  upon  an 
especial  type  of  little  group  of  people,  one  might 
indeed  think  each  time  that  it  was  the  same  little 
group  over  again,  so  much  each  different  one  of 
them  resembles  all  the  others — four  or  five 
women,  an  old  man,  a  young  sick-looking  man, 
and  quite  a  tagging  on  of  children.  One  knows 
that  they  are  refugees.  They  have  the  unmis- 
takable look  of  refugees.  It  gives  them  all  that 
likeness,  every  little  dragging  tribe  of  them  to 
every  other.  It  is  the  look  of  people  who  are 
waiting  for  something,  and  to  whom  nothing  in 
the  meanwhile  matters.  They  are  indifferent  and 
dull  because  nothing  else  matters.  They  make 
no  effort  and  take  no  trouble — of  what  use? 
It  is  not  worth  their  while  to  better  things  that 
will  not  last.  There  is  always  a  woman  in  poor 
rusty  deep  mourning  who  has  tied  her  little 
girl's  hair  with  a  Belgian  ribbon. 

Music  comes  and  goes  at  odd  times  through 
the  streets,  as  pipe  and  drum  and  trumpet  of 

255 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

to-morrow's  procession  are  moved  this  way  and 
that  to  their  various  places. 

You  get  fragments  of  strange  music,  sometimes 
come  from  very  far-away  strange  countries,  to 
these  streets. 

Friday,  July  I4th:  Pink  Shoes 

¥T  would  be  too  unkind  of  it  to  rain,  as  if  the 
•*•  fete  were  not  already  shadowed  enough. 

One  was  angry  waking  in  the  rain. 

It  rained  when  they  took  their  wreaths  and 
flowers  to  the  statues  of  Strasburg  and  Lille,  and 
it  rained  when  the  troops  were  massed  before  the 
Invalides  for  the  prise  d'armes. 

But  afterwards  the  rain  did  stop. 

A  girl  and  a  limping  soldier,  ahead  of  us  as  we 
went  to  the  Nord-Sud,  were  sopping  wet.  I 
suppose  they  had  been  standing  for  hours  on 
the  Esplanade.  Her  knitted  cape  and  cotton 
blouse  were  quite  soaked  through.  She  had  no 
hat,  and  she  was  laughing  because  her  brown 
curls  dripped  into  her  eyes. 

In  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  people  had  put 
down  their  umbrellas,  and  were  telling  one 
another  that  it  was  really  better  not  to  have  the 
heat  of  sunshine. 

We  waited  a  little  with  the  crowd  in  the  Place, 

256 


Friday,  July  14th 

the  friendly,  orderly  Paris  crowd  that  used  to 
come  to  fetes  so  gaily,  grave  now,  almost 
solemn.  The  crowd  was  full  of  wounded.  The 
men  flung  back  out  of  the  war,  broken,  were 
come  to  watch  their  comrades  pass  between  two 
battles.  The  crowd  gave  place  to  them,  and 
they  were  proud  in  it. 

Then  Diane  came,  with  Miss  and  the  babies, 
both  of  them  tremendously  excited  in  their 
little  mackintosh  coats. 

One  of  the  club  servants  showed  us  to  the  small 
writing-room,  where  a  window  had  been  reserved 
for  us.  From  the  window  we  looked  down  on  the 
wide  grey  stream  of  the  street  between  banks  of 
people.  One  way  we  could  see  the  great  Place 
kept  clear  also,  in  grey  reaches,  past  islands  of 
crowd,  and  the  other  way  we  could  see  a  heap  of 
people  on  the  steps  of  the  Madeleine. 

The  babies  sat  on  the  window-ledge  and  forgot 
everything  at  once  because  of  another  baby, 
down  in  the  crowd  on  the  opposite  kerb,  who 
wore  a  pink  bonnet  and  pink  shoes,  and  had  a 
little  flag  in  either  hand. 

"Oh,  mummy,  her  mummy  has  put  down  a 
newspaper  for  her  to  stand  on,  so  the  wet  won't 
hurt  her  shoes." 

"Yes,  Cricri  darling.    Don't  wriggle  so,  child; 
Miss,  do  watch  out  for  her." 
257 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

"I've  got  pink  shoes,  too,  haven't  I,  Fafa?" 
Diane,  holding  Fafa  very  tight  on  the  window- 
ledge — not  because  he  wriggled,  he  was  too  big, 
but  because  he  might  have  been  grown  up,  like 
the  little  boys  of  other  mothers,  and  gone  away  to 
war — was  telling  him  what  a  wonderful  thing  it 
was  he  had  come  to  see,  and  how,  when  he  was  a 
big  man,  he  would  always  remember  it,  and  could 
say  to  people,  "On  the  14th  of  July,  1916,  I 


saw 

14 


Yes,  mummy!  Oh,  mummy,  do  you  suppose 
that  little  girl's  shoes  are  quite  new  for  to-day?" 

"Babies,  you  are  going  to  see  Belgian  soldiers; 
you  will  always  and  always  remember  what  they 
did  for  us.  And  there  will  be  British  soldiers; 
you  know  how  they  are  fighting  for  us,  just  the 
same  as  papa  and  Uncle  Kaoul.  And  you  will 
see  the  Russians,  who  have  come  from  so  far  away 
to  help  us ;  and  beautiful  Hindus,  and  big  Africans, 
and  the  little  Anamites,  and  our  own  men. ' ' 

Her  voice  thrilled  when  she  said ' '  our  own  men. ' ' 

Her  voice  has  that  curious  quality  of  drawing 
darkness:  it  made  me  feel  the  shadows  when  she 
said  like  that,  "our  own  men." 

She  said,  "There  will  be  the  fusilliers  marins, 
and  the  cuirassiers,  and  the  artilleurs.  You  may 
see  the  75 ',  Fafa.  And  there  will  be  the  chasseurs 
a  pied,  from  Verdun,  with  their  fourragere." 

358 


Friday,  July  14th 

"  Mummy,  was  it  her  mummy  who  gave  her 
the  little  flags? " 

"I  think  so,  Fafa  darling." 

"Is  it  her  mummy  there  with  her?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Is  her  papa  gone  to  the  war,  like  my  papa?" 

Diane  put  her  cheek  down  against  the  top  of 
his  little  fuzzy  head  as  she  stood  with  her  arms 
around  him. 

"Is  her  papa  gone  to  the  war  too,  mummy?" 

"I  think  so." 

"She  has  to  stand  up^all  the  time,  mummy,  will 
she  not  be  tired?  I  am  afraid  she  will  be  tired 
before  the  procession  comes.  "When  will  the 
procession  come,  mummy?" 

Diane  said  to  me,  "To  think  it  is  the  first  day 
of  flags  and  music  we  have  had  since  the  war 
began " 

I  was  thinking  all  the  time  of  the  day  when  the 
troops  will  come  home.  I  was  thinking  that  this 
day  was  a  promise  of  that  day.  I  knew  that  Diane 
was  thinking  of  that  also.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears;  I  saw  them  through  the  tears  that  were  in 
my  own  eyes.  We  both  knew  so  well.  The  men 
look  forward  fearlessly  to  that  day,  but  the  women 
know  fear.  Every  woman  in  the  crowd  was  think- 
ing how  this  day  promised  that  day,  gloriously; 
and  every  one  was  thinking — but  if  he  does  not 
come  home.  259 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  people  were  come  to  their  day  of  flags  and 
music  almost  as  if  it  were  to  some  religious 
ceremony.  They  waited  in  the  grey  morning  to 
see  their  troops  go  by ;  coming  from  battles,  going 
back  again  to  battles,  and  always  with  the  war 
so  close  that,  if  it  were  not  for  the  sounds  of  the 
city,  we  could  have  heard  its  thundering. 

Diane  said,  because  she  did  not  want  the 
children  to  think  she  was  sad,  "The  little  pink 
girl  must  have  come  very  early  to  have  got  so 
good  a  place. " 

"Mummy,  did  she  have  a  nice  breakfast  before 
she  came?" 

"Oh,  yes,  a  lovely  breakfast." 

"Will  the  procession  never  come,  mummy  dear? 
That  little  girl  must  be  so  tired.  Why  doesn't 
the  procession  come,  mummy?" 

"Oh,  there's  the  sun,"  Cricri  sang  out,  wriggling 
in  Miss's  arms,  and  clapping  her  hands.  "There's 
the  sun  come  out!" 

The  sun  shone  straight  into  our  eyes  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  the  soft  grey  settled  down 
again. 

We  heard  the  sound  of  music  and  of  marching, 
from  a  long  way  off. 

The  crowd  stirred  and  thrilled. 

"They  are  coming,"  cried  the  babies,  "they're 
coming!" 

260 


Friday,  July  14th 

"Yes,  yes,  they're  coming.  What  is  that  the 
band  plays?  There's  the  Garde  Republicaine, 
and  the  music — listen,  babies!  And  now  it  is 
Belgian  music.  There  are  the  Belgians — see  the 
people  run  out  to  give  them  flowers!  There  are 
the  mitrailleuses  and  the  Lanciers  and  the 
Cyclistes!" 

"Mummy,  I've  got  a  bicycle  too  haven't  I; 
and  I  can  ride  it  well,  can 't  I  ? " 

"Now  the  English,  with  their  music!  Cricri, 
do  keep  still  and  let  Miss  see.  How  beautifully 
they  march!  Aren't  you  proud,  Miss?  There 
are  the  Ansacs,  Fafa;  and  look  at  the  Indians! 
The  street  is  carpeted  with  flowers:  they  cannot 
pick  them  up,  they  walk  over  them.  There  are 
the  Russians.  Look,  babies,  the  little  boys  and 
girls  from  the  crowd  run  out  and  pick  up  the 
flowers  to  give  them!  Listen,  the  Russian 
music  sounds  like  great  seas  and  winds  in 
forests.  It  will  be  our  own  men  coming  now, 
Fafa." 

"Mummy,  oh,  mummy!  I  can't  see  the  little 
girl  any  more!" 

"Now  it  will  be  our  own  men  coming!  Look, 
look,  babies,  to  see  the  very  first  of  them! 
There's  our  own  music — listen." 

Holding  Fafa  close  against  her  shoulder,  she 
leaned  out  past  him  over  the  window-ledge,  her 
261 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

eyes  lighted  with  that  flame  one  knows  in 
soldiers'  eyes. 

"They  will  be  our  own  men,  who  have  fought 
for  us,  who  will  go  back  to  fight  for  us.  Fafa, 
think  of  it!  Here  they  are,  their  music — oh, 
oh,  it  is  the  Chant  du  Depart!" 

" Mummy,  do  you  think  we'll  never  any  more  see 
the  little  girl  with  the  pink  shoes?" 


Monday,   July   ijth 


beds  and  ten  stretcher-beds, 
the  ward  is  full  again.  They  are  all  from 
the  Somme.  They  are  not  nearly  so  bad  as  those 
from  Verdun  and  the  Champagne.  There  has 
been  only  one  of  them,  so  far,  who  died. 

He  was  brought  in  on  Wednesday,  they  oper- 
ated next  morning,  and  he  died  in  the  night. 
The  wound  had  become  gangrenous. 

He  was  twenty-five  years  old.  He  was  from 
the  invaded  countries,  and  had  no  one,  no  one  at 
all,  who  could  come.  He  had  had  no  news  of  his 
people  since  the  beginning  of  the  war,  nor  had 
he  been  able  to  send  his  news  to  them.  He  had 
never  been  out  of  his  little  commune,  except  to 
go  to  the  trenches.  He  had  no  name  to  give  of 
any  friend. 

262 


Monday,  July  17th 

The  patronne  told  me  to  go  to  the  funeral,  for 
there  was  no  one  else  to  go.  None  of  the  real 
nurses  could  be  spared,  and  very  few  of  the  men 
from  downstairs  would  be  able  to  walk  so  far. 
It  was  to  be  at  Pantin.  We  would  go  first  to 
the  church.  We  would  leave  the  hospital  at 
half-past  three. 

I  tell  of  so  many  funerals.  But  there  are  so 
many,  and  they  impress  me  so.  Those  men  die 
for  us,  and  we,  who  may  not  die — how  could  it 
be  but  that  their  dying  means  more  to  us  than 
other  things?  There  is  nothing  we  can  do  for 
those  who  fall  and  lie  on  the  battlefield.  But 
with  these,  here,  we  go  a  little  way. 

And  what  else  is  there? 

I  have  got  some  decent  clothes,  and  I  go  some- 
times to  see  some  one,  and  we  pretend  we  are 
amused  by  bits  of  gossip.  We  say,  "Oh,  that's 
a  hat  from  Rose-Marie!"  and,  "Where  did  you 
get  your  tricot?"  But  it  is  as  if  we  went  on  a 
journey,  and  we  come  home  tired  from  it,  to  the 
dark  shelter  of  our  thoughts. 

One  rests  better  following  through  endless  poor 
streets  after  a  pine-box  with  the  flag  upon  it  and 
the  palms. 

The  people  stand  back,  the  men  salute,  the 
women  make  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  and  we  keep 
our  own  small  perfect  silence  with  us  as  we  pass. 

263 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  piquet  d'honneur  walked  with  arms  reversed, 
four  on  either  side  of  him. 

There  was  no  one  but  me  to  bring  him  flowers, 
but  he  had  a  big  fine  tin  wreath  from  his  comrades 
of  our  service,  and  his  palms  from  the  Ville  de 
Paris,  and  the  spray  of  zinc  flowers  with  the 
ribbon  marked  ' '  Souvenir  Frangais ' '  that,  Madame 
Bayle  said,  is  always  sent  from  the  Ministers  de 
la  Guerre. 

Madame  Bayle  came  with  us.  She  is  fat  and 
always  ill,  but  she  could  be  spared  from  the 
linen-room.  I  never  had  seen  her  before  "en 
civil.''  She  had  a  large  black  hat  from  which, 
she  told  me,  she  had,  for  the  occasion,  taken  off 
fourteen  red  roses.  I  thought,  as  we  walked  to- 
gether, "Why,  she  and  I  are  bitter  enemies!  For 
nine  months  we  have  quarrelled  every  day!" 

We  walked  together,  close  behind  the  boy,  who 
had  no  one  but  we  two  and  five  of  his  comrades 
to  follow  him. 

It  was  hot,  there  was  no  air  at  all.  There  was 
a  terrible  odour  of  disinfectant. 

Madame  Bayle  said,  "It  is  because  of  the 
gangrene, ' '  and  quite  worried  for  fear  I  could  not 
stand  it. 

And  I  worried  about  her  bad  knee.  Was  it 
bad  to-day?  I  was  afraid  she  would  be  very 
tired. 

264 


Monday,  July  17th 

We  felt  most  sympathetically  about  each  other. 

She  kept  saying,  "It  is  all  the  same  sad,  it  is 
all  the  same  sad." 

One  of  the  wounded  said,  "Not  so  sad  as  to  lie 
out  for  the  crows  in  no-man  's-land." 

The  Garde  Kepublicaine,  standing  at  attention, 
formed  an  aisle  for  him  and  for  us  to  pass  through 
into  the  church.  Of  course,  they  never  come 
into  the  church. 

Madame  Bayle,  kneeling  stiffly  beside  him, 
went  on  whispering,  "C'est  tout  de  meme  triste," 
as  if  it  were  a  sort  of  prayer.  ' '  C  'est  tout  de  meme 
triste  d'etre  seul  comme  c.a." 

An  old  woman  appeared  from  somewhere  and 
put  a  little  bunch  of  marguerites  on  his  flag,  and 
went  away  again.  The  stems  of  the  marguerites 
were  done  up  in  white  paper.  Some  women  came 
and  stayed;  and  some  little  girls,  and  a  troop  of 
small  boys,  in  black  blouses,  just  let  out  from  the 
school  opposite. 

When  it  was  over,  they  all  filed  out,  past  Madame 
Bayle  and  me,  as  we  stood  in  the  place  where 
would  have  been  his  people. 

On  and  on  we  went,  through  streets  always 
sadder  and  more  sad  as  they  frayed  out  at  the 
edge  of  the  city. 

Madame  Bayle  always  shuffled  and  panted, 
and  the  wounded  followed  more  and  more  slowly. 

265 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

The  city  gate,  and  the  ramparts,  and  longer, 
wider,  even  sadder  streets  to  pass  along,  over  the 
cobbles;  then  an  avenue  of  limes  in  fragrant 
blossom,  and  the  entrance  of  the  great  cemetery. 

The  piquet  d'honneur  left  us  at  the  gate, 
and  we  were  just  ourselves  to  go  on  with  him 
to  the  place  where  the  soldiers  who  are  lonely 
like  him  lie,  so  many  of  them  together. 

It  is  a  beautiful  place.  When  his  people  can 
come  to  him  I  think  they  will  be  proud  to  find 
him  in  so  beautiful  a  place. 

We  put  our  flowers  with  him,  and  went  away 
Madame  Bayle  always  saying,  "C'est  triste  tout 
de  meme,  d'etre  comme  c.a,  tout  seul." 

The  wounded  went  so  fast  ahead  of  us  out  of 
the  cemetery  that  Madame  Bayle  could  not  keep 
up  at  all. 

She  panted,  "They  are  so  glad  to  get  out  of  it, 
poor  boys,  poor  boys.  They  will  wait  for  us  at 
the  entrance;  We  will  go  all  of  us  together  to 
the  cafe  on  the  right  of  the  entrance  for  our 
'little  glr-  '  " 


Thursday,  July  aoth:    Little   Florist 

T  yTERY  early  this  morning,  on  my  way  to  the 
hospital,    I    stopped   at   the   little   florist's 
shop  round  the  corner,  near  the  church,  to  get 
266 


Thursday,  July  20th 

some  blue  and  purple  larkspur  and  crimson 
ramble-roses. 

It  was  so  early,  I  was  afraid  Jeannette  would 
not  yet  be  back  with  the  day's  ilowers  from  the 
great  central  markets. 

It  is  Jeannette,  the  younger,  pretty  sister,  who 
goes  every  morning  to  choose  the  fresh  flowers, 
and  Caroline,  who  in  the  meanwhile  puts  the 
little  shop  in  order  to  receive  them,  washing 
their  window  and  filling  their  bowls  and  vases 
with  water,  and  scrubbing  out  the  floor. 

Caroline  is  not  yet  twenty-five  years  old,  and 
Jeannette  is  eighteen.  They  are  quite  alone 
now  to  keep  the  little  shop. 

Their  father  is  paralyzed,  helpless,  and  they 
must  take  care  of  him. 

The  brother,  who  used  to  take  care  of  them  all, 
is  at  the  war. 

Just  two  years  ago,  in  the  early  summer, 
before  the  war,  I  remember  that  Caroline,  who 
is  not  really  pretty  at  all,  suddenly  came  to  be 
quite  beautiful.  Her  small  dark  thin  face  was 
aglow,  as  if  her  heart  were  full  of  sunlight, 
and  she  moved  about  the  shop  in  a  way  so  glad 
that  it  seemed  as  if  every  little  humble  thing 
she  had  to  do  were  become  for  her  part  of  a 
dance.  She  gave  away  to  one  then  more  than 
one  bought  of  larkspur  and  ramble-roses,  and 

267 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Jeannette  and  the  big  brother  looked  on  leni- 
ently. 

All  that  seems  now  very  long  ago. 

So  few  people  can  bear  happy  colours  in  these 
days,  that  Jeannette  brings  back  from  the  market 
little  else  but  white  and  purple  flowers,  and  green 
leaves  for  wreaths  and  crosses. 

I  was  very  early  this  morning,  and  Jeannette 
was  not  yet  come  back  from  the  Halles. 

Caroline  was  down  on  her  knees,  scrubbing  the 
floor.  She  was  crying  as  she  scrubbed  the  floor. 

She  had  not  expected  any  one  to  come  so  early, 
and  she  was  crying  just  as  hard  as  she  could  cry, 
while  she  was  alone  and  had  the  time. 

She  got  up  from  her  knees  and  rubbed  her  bare 
arm  across  her  eyes. 

I  thought  of  her  brother  at  the  war,  and  of  the 
some  one  because  of  whom,  perhaps,  she  had  been 
happy,  two  years  ago.  I  scarcely  dared  to  ask, 
"Is  it  bad  news,  Caroline?" 

"No,  Madame,"  she  said,  still  rubbing  her 
eyes,  "No,  Madame,  it  is  nothing  special.  It  is 
only  as  if  there  were  nothing  but  tears  in  the 
world." 


268 


Trains 


Trains 

WO  trains  are  side-tracked  in  the  fields, 
beyond  the  little  country  station,  where  the 
wheat  is  already  bronzed  and  heavy-headed,  and 
the  poppies  flame  through  it,  and  where  there  is 
all  the  music  of  grass-hoppers  and  crickets  and 
birds. 

One  is  a  train  of  men  coming  back  from  the 
Front  on  leave,  and  very  gay.  They  are  all 
laughing  and  singing  in  the  carriages.  They  are 
all  getting  themselves  tidied  up,  for  shortly  they 
will  be  in  Paris.  The  officers  in  several  of  the 
carriages  have  managed  to  get  some  water,  and 
are  scrubbing  luxuriously,  with  tin-cups  and 
soup-plates  for  basins.  Soapy  faces  appear  at 
the  windows.  The  men  have  opened  the  carriage 
doors  all  along  the  train  and  got  out  to  tumble 
about  in  the  grass  at  the  edge  of  the  train.  They 
pick  buttercups  that  grow  close  to  the  rails,  and 
some  of  them  have  wandered  off  into  the  tall 
wheat  to  gather  poppies. 

The  second  train  on  the  siding  is  full  of  wounded, 
who  must  wait,  like  the  permissionnaires,  to  let 
pass  the  munition  and  troop  trains  going  out. 
The  wounded  are  quite  comfortably  arranged  on 
their  tiers  of  stretchers;  the  doctors  and  orderlies 
269 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

have  all  the  needed  things,  and  move  about 
competently,  up  and  down  the  train.  It  is 
strange  how  quiet  the  train  of  wounded  is.  It 
is  only  here  and  there  along  it  that  one  hears 
moaning  or  a  cry. 

A  munition  train  crawls  by,  all  grey.  It  is 
nothing  that  the  permissionnaires  or  wounded 
need  notice. 

Then,  after  a  time,  that  seems  very  long,  comes 
a  troop-train  going  out.  The  men  in  the  troop 
train  hang  out  of  the  windows  and  look  silently 
upon  all  the  things  they  are  passing  in  the  fields, 
that  seem  so  full  of  peace  and  so  kind. 

They  wave  to  the  permissionnaires,  who  are 
silent  for  a  moment,  watching  them  as  they  go. 
And  then  they  pass  the  train  of  wounded,  some 
of  whom  look  up  at  them. 

Monday,  July  24th — 5.30  of  the 
morning 

PEROT  has  just  gone. 

•••      He    was    noiselessly    creeping     down    the 
outside  stairs  from  his  attic  room.     But  I  was 
waiting  at  the  door  on  the  landing,  and  made 
him  come  in  for  a  minute  to  the  apartment. 
He  sat,   loaded  down  with  all  his   campaign 
270 


Monday,  July  24th 

things,  in  the  little  yellow  chair,  and  I  sat  in  the 
big  yellow  chair,  and  we  looked  at  one  another. 

It  is  odd  how  one  never  can  say  any  of  the 
things  to  them,*  and  how,  always,  they  under- 
stand perfectly  all  the  things  one  would  say  if 
one  could. 

He  looked  very  ill,  poor  boy.  Ten  days'  leave 
of  convalescence  after  five  months  in  the  hospital 
has  really  not  given  him  enough  time  to  pick  up. 
And  he  worries  so.  He  can  try  to  eat,  but  he 
cannot  sleep  at  all.  All  night  he  thinks  and 
thinks. 

I  know  so  very  well  just  what  he  thinks. 

He  has  never  had  many  words  with  which  to 
tell  me,  for  he  has  had  all  his  short  life  to  work 
so  hard  that  he  could  get  little  time  for  learning 
to  express  himself.  But  sometimes  he  says, 
"If  I  knew  they  were  dead " 

They  are  his  two  little  sisters.  The  mother 
died  five  years  ago,  the  father  several  years 
before  that.  He  helped  his  mother  when  he  was 
still  a  schoolboy  to  take  care  of  the  little  sisters, 
Celestine  and  Marie;  and  when  the  mother  was 
dead  he  took  care  of  them  alone.  Now  he  is 
twenty-four  years  old,  and  Celestine  is  seven-  \ 
teen  and  Marie  sixteen. 

Since  the  day  he  left,  two  years  less  just  eleven 
days  ago,  he  has  had  no  word  of  them  at  all. 
271 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Others  from  those  invaded  countries  have  had 
perhaps  messages,  a  postal  card,  some  sort  of  a 
letter;  but  he  had  had  no  word. 

An  application  we  got  through  for  him  to  the 
maire  of  the  nearest  large  town  has  had  only  the 
answer  that  the  farm  exists  no  more  and  that 
nothing  has  been  known  of  the  two  young  girls. 

It  was  the  "le  mauvais  sang  qu'il  faisait,"  as 
Madame  Marthe  said,  that  kept  him  so  long 
from  getting  well.  His  wound  in  the  shoulder 
was  pretty  bad,  but  what  was  worse  was  his 
unceasing  grief  and  dread.  He  would  have  died, 
of  the  wound  and  that,  if  he  had  not  been  so  young 
and  northern  and  strong. 

His  wound  got  itself  well.  The  new  ones 
needed  his  place  in  the  hospital.  He  was  given 
ten  days'  sick  leave,  and  came  to  spend  it  in 
the  room  upstairs,  because  he  had  nowhere  else 
to  go. 

Now  his  leave  has  come  to  an  end,  and  he  is 
going  back  to  his  depot,  and  then  to  the  Front. 
I  may  never  see  him  again,  my  poor  boy,  whose 
face  goes  white  and  red,  and  white  and  red,  and 
whose  blue  northern  eyes  fill  with  tears  if  one 
speaks  kindly  to  him. 

He  sat  in  the  little  yellow  chair  and  I  sat  in  the 
big  yellow  chair,  and  we  looked  at  each  other  in 
the  wet  grey  early  morning. 
272 


Monday,  July  24th 


I  said,  "They  gave  you  a  good  breakfast?" 

"Oh,  yes,  madame." 

"And  your  little  package,  for  lunch  in  the 
train  1" 

"Oh,  yes,  madame,  and  the  cigarettes." 

"Some  letter-paper  to  write  to  me  on?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"You  have  all  the  money  you  need,  you  are 
sure,  my  child?" 

"Oh,  yes,  madame,  much  more  than  I  need.  I 
still  have  that  twenty  francs. ' ' 

"You  promise  to  let  me  know  if  I  can  do  any- 
thing for  you?" 

' '  Yes,  madame. ' ' 

"And  you  will  take  care  of  yourself,  please, 
Perot." 

"Yes,  madame." 

The  clock  struck  once,  the  first  quarter  hour 
past  five. 

"You  must  go,  my  child." 

He  stood  up. 

I  went  to  the  door  with  him. 

"You  would  not  have  liked  me  to  come  to  the 
train,  Perot?" 

"No,  madame,  because  I  should  have  cried;  I 
am  so  stupid,  madame." 

"I  would  have  cried  too.  And  so,  my  child — 
until  a  less  sad  day." 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

"Madame — thank  you." 

"No,  I  thank  you,  little  soldier." 


Wednesday,  July  26th 

'  •  *  HIS  morning,  at  the  hospital,  one  of  the  Ver- 
•*•  dun  men  came  up  from  the  convalescent 
ward  downstairs,  where  he  was  sent  when  they 
evacuated  for  the  Somme,  to  say  good-bye  to  us. 
He  is  well  enough,  and  he  is  going  back.  He  is  one 
of  the  older  men,  one  of  those  who  have  the  look 
of  worrying  about  wives  and  babies.  He  has 
been  twice  wounded.  The  first  was  a  bad 
wound;  he  had  taken  long  to  get  over  it  in  some 
hospital  of  the  provinces,  and  to  be  able  to  go 
back  and  be  wounded  again.  Now  he  is  going 
back  for  the  third  time. 

I  remember  his  having  told  me,  at  first,  when 
he  was  quite  ill  and  talked  with  fever,  that  he 
was  terribly  afraid  of  Verdun.  He  said  he  did 
not  mind  what  they  did  with  him  if  only  they 
did  not  send  him  back  to  Verdun.  He  said  he 
was  afraid  of  the  bayonet.  He  could  kill  with 
the  gun,  he  said,  but  not  with  the  bayonet.  He 
said  he  stood  paralyzed  when  it  was  the  moment 
to  strike  with  the  bayonet,  and  could  not  strike. 
274 


Wednesday,  July  26th 

It  was  after  he  left  my  ward  that  his  wife  had 
come  up  from  the  Limousin,  and  brought  the 
two  little  girls  to  visit  him.  I  never  saw  her,  but 
I  remember  how  happy  he  was.  He  told  me  his 
wife  could,  not  stay  long  because  she  had  to  go 
back  and  take  care  of  the  cows.  They  had  two 
cows,  he  said. 

Now  he  bade  good-bye  to  Madame  Marthe, 
who  was  washing  her  hands  with  sublime  after 
a  dressing,  and  who  gave  him  a  sharp  red  elbow 
to  shake. 

He  said  good-bye  to  the  men  in  the  ward,  each 
one  in  turn,  and  stood  a  minute  looking  at  his 
old  place  and  said,  ' '  One  was  well  off  there. ' ' 

I  went  to  the  door  with  him. 

It  was  very  hot  in  the  ward,  and  there  were  flies 
buzzing. 

I  thought:  To  be  going  back  to  that,  when 
one  knows  it  already;  to  be  going  back  to  that, 
when  one  has  no  longer  youth's  elan  and  careless- 
ness; when  one  has  to  worry  over  labour  and 
poverty  left  behind. 

I  suppose  he  saw  something  in  my  face  of  what 
I  felt,  for  he  said,  in  a  kind,  pitying  way,  as  if  to 
help  me,  "Do  not  be  sad,  madame."  And  he 
said  the  thing  they  all  say,  all  of  them,  "I'  faut 
b'en,  tous  les  copains  sont  la." 

"All  the  others  are  there." 
275 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

And  then,  this  afternoon,  I  heard  another 
soldier  say  that. 

It  was  in  the  rue  de  la  Paix.  He  was  giving  an 
order  to  the  chauffeur.  His  little  boy,  in  a 
white  pique  dress  with  a  big  lace  collar,  was 
standing  beside  him,  dancing  up  and  down  and 
hanging  on  his  hand. 

His  wife  leaned  out  of  the  window  of  the 
motor  and  called  to  me  as  I  passed,  and  he 
turned.  I  stopped,  and  we  talked  for  a  minute. 

He  has  been  home  on  a  six  days'  leave  and  is 
going  back  to-night. 

He  is  a  captain  in  the  chasseurs  a  pied.  Before 
the  war  he  was  an  officer  in  a  smart  cavalry 
regiment,  but  he  had  himself  transferred  into 
the  infantry  when  the  war  began.  I  have  heard 
the  men  in  the  hospital  talk  of  him.  They  say, 
"C'est  un  type  epatant,  celui-la."  They  say  he 
never  sends  his  men  to  reconnoitre,  but  goes 
himself,  always. 

He  looked  very  young  and  splendid  in  his 
smart  uniform,  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
motor. 

The  little  boy,  always  dancing  up  and  down 
beside  him,  said,  " We've  got  his  picture  taken! 
We  Ve  got  his  picture  taken ! ' ' 

His  wife  tried  to  laugh  but  I  saw  her  eyes  in 
the  shadow  of  her  white  lace  hat.  "It's  true," 
276 


Wednesday,  July  26th 

she  said,  "we  dragged  him  to  it,  poor  boy.  We 
had  nothing  decent  of  him  at  all,  you  know." 

She  was  very  lovely  in  her  lovely  things,  with 
a  heap  of  red  roses  beside  her  on  the  seat  of  the 
motor. 

Somehow,  that  it  was  all  so  pretty  made  it 
sadder.  In  the  bright  street  I  thought:  To  go 
back  to  that,  when  one  has  so  much,  when  one 
has  everything  in  the  world,  and  is  young  and 
full  of  radiant  life. 

His  wife  and  I  looked  at  each  other. 

He  smiled  down  at  her,  as  if  it  were  only  for 
her  one  need  be  sorry.  "We  have  had  six 
perfect  days,"  he  said,  "and  you  know  it 
must  be — the  others  are  there." 

I  have  written  those  words  many  times  over. 
But  they  are  the  words  one  hears  every  day. 
As  the  men  go  back,  each  one  of  them  from  the 
however  different  circumstances  of  his  life,  that 
is  all  they  seem  to  find  to  say  about  it.  It  does 
not  make  a  fine  phrase,  but  it  has  come  to  mean 
for  me  a  beautiful  thing.  Behind  the  great 
sweep  of  battles  it  is  one  of  the  things  I  shall 
always  be  glad  to  have  known. 

I  find  myself  wanting  to  put  each  saying  of  it 
away  with  other  memories  in  this  book  that  for 
two  years  has  kept  me  company. 

Two  years  ago — so  long  ago  that  I  find  myself 
277 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

saying,  once  upon  a  time — there  was  a  small 
square  tower  room  that  had  three  windows, 
narrow  and  deep-set,  the  loopholes  of  ancient 
defences.  Once  upon  a  time  the  three  windows 
stood  open  to  the  night  and  the  garden,  and  to 
a  sense,  somehow,  of  the  friendly  crowding  up  of 
the  little  town  about  the  rampart  walls,  and  to 
the  country  lying  away  beyond,  sweet  in  the 
dark  with  forest  and  field. 

I  know  that  where  war  has  passed  strangers 
can  look  into  broken  houses  and  see  all  that  was 
intimate  and  small  and  dear  betrayed  with  ruin 
of  stones  and  lives,  and  that,  like  that,  people 
who  do  not  care  may  glance  in  passing  into  the 
wreck  of  the  north  tower  room. 

The  tower  had  stood  for  so  long,  keeping  watch 
over  that  road  to  Paris — how  strange  to  think 
it  will  keep  watch  no  more!  It  had  looked  down, 
in  its  long  time,  on  much  of  war,  and  held  its 
own  through  three  besiegings — and  now  it  is 
fallen. 

Now  it  is  fallen,  the  strong  tower,  in  a  land 
that  is  laid  waste,  from  which  peace  has  been 
taken  away,  and  joy,  out  of  the  plentiful  fields. 

Already  that  night  was  passed  beyond  the  end 
of  the  world. 

In  the  morning  of  that  day,  the  morning  of 
that  last  Sunday  of  peace,  I  had  stood  in  my 
278 


Wednesday,  July  26th 

window  over  the  garden  and  seen  the  sunshine, 
thick  and  golden  after  rain,  on  wet  sweet  things, 
lawns  and  little  formal  stately  paths  and  box 
edges  and  clipped  yews,  roses  and  heliotrope 
and  petunias.  And  I  had  not  known.  I  had 
seen  the  close,  soft  dream-sky  of  France  full  of 
white  clouds  above  the  tops  of  trees  that  were 
green  and  golden,  or  sometimes  as  dark  as  purple 
and  black.  And  I  had  not  known. 

The  white  peacocks  were  spreading  their 
dreams  of  tails  below  the  terrace,  between  the 
crouching  sphynxes  that  years  and  years  of  moss 
and  ivy  and  rose- vines  had  grown  over. 

There  had  been  church  bells  ringing  to  the 
voices  of  the  garden,  its  birds  and  bees  and 
grasshoppers.  And  I  had  not  known. 

Against  the  rampart  walls  I  could  see,  betweep 
the  trees,  the  town  roofs  gathered  close,  rust-red 
ancient  tiles  and  thatch  that  time  and  weathers 
had  made  beautiful,  and  crooked  chimney-pots 
and  blue  smoke  rising  straight  and  high  in  the 
still,  blue  air. 

I  could  hear  the  little  sounds  of  the  village, 
together  with  the  garden  sounds  and  the  bells. 

I  could  smell  hearth  fires  and  fresh-baked 
bread,  together  with  the  new-cut  grass  and 
heliotrope  and  roses. 

Every  sound  had  been  part  of  the  stillness; 
279 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

all  the  lines  and  colours  of  things  belonged 
together  in  that  soft  harmony  which  is  so  especially 
of  France.  I  had  thought,  how  it  was  France! 
And  I  had  not  known. 

I  had  gone  to  Mass  in  the  little  ancient,  dusky 
church  of  the  village.  I  had  gone  down  across 
the  parterres,  and  along  the  avenue  of  limes, 
through  the  summer  woods  that  were  so  happy 
and  alive,  out  at  the  little  green  gate  in  the 
rampart  walls,  and  down  the  street  of  big  square 
old  cobbles,  between  the  nestling  houses. 

And  in  the  church  there  had  been  incense  and 
candles,  and  the  white  caps  of  old  women,  and 
the  wriggling  of  the  children  in  their  Sunday 
clothes. 

When  I  came  back,  there  were  the  papers 
arrived  from  Paris.  And  nothing  again  was 
ever,  ever,  to  be  the  same. 

That  night,  not  knowing  why,  I  wanted  to 
write  down  for  my  own  memory  notes  of  just 
those  little  things  that  seem  so  small,  and  that 
went  all  together  to  the  making  of  a  mood  we 
can  no  more  find  to  turn  to. 

I  wanted  to  write  of  the  fragrance  of  delicate 
years  that  abode  in  my  tower  room;  of  the  dim, 
cloudy  mirror  over  the  mantel  that  had  reflected 
so  many  stories;  of  how  the  writing-table  stood 
in  the  north  window,  and  had  nothing  but  a  bowl 
280 


Wednesday,  July  26th 

of  sweet-peas  and  my  travelling-desk  things  on 
it;  and  that  the  window  was  open,  and  how 
all  the  wet,  sweet,  quite  cold  night  came  in; 
and  that,  over  the  tops  of  the  dark  trees,  and 
between  the  dark  cloud  masses,  I  could  see  all 
the  stars  of  the  Lyre,  Vega,  blue-white,  very 
big  and  near,  all  more  brilliant,  I  thought, 
than  ever  I  had  known  them  before.  I  wanted 
to  explain  how,  somehow,  one  felt  the  village, 
down  under  the  rampart  walls,  though  it  slept 
and  made  no  sound,  and  how  friendly  its  presence 
was  as  it  lay  so  close,  protecting  and  protected, 
about  its  ancient  burg. 

Now  the  houses  are  roofless,  and  the  rampart 
walls  are  broken.  The  tower  is  fallen.  Nothing 
is  left  unchanged  there,  to-night,  but  the  shining 
down  of  the  August  stars. 

I  had  dreamed  of  the  hoofbeats  of  galloping 
horses  and  crash  of  great  wheels  and  of  thunder. 
And  all  that  came,  and  does  not  cease.  I  had 
dreamed  of  blood  on  the  castle  stairs,  dripping 
and  dripping.  And  they  say  that  there  was  one 
night  especially,  when  the  castle  was  so  full  of 
wounded  men,  that  there  was  nowhere  left  to 
lay  them  in  any  of  the  rooms,  or  in  the  lower  halls. 
They  carried  them  as  they  were  brought  in  up 
the  stairs  to  lie  on  the  floor  of  the  Long  Gallery. 
And  the  blood  ran  down  the  stairs. 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

There  was  fighting,  over  and  over,  up  and 
down,  those  big  square  cobbles  of  the  streets  and 
of  the  market  place,  and  from  the  doors  and 
windows  and  roofs  of  those  little  houses. 

The  people  of  the  streets  and  houses  are  gone, 
who  knows  where,  with  their  poor  small  bundles, 
fled  long  ago,  before  the  hoofbeats  and  wheels 
and  thunder. 

Across  these  things,  how  absurd  to  remember 
the  sweet-peas  there  were,  that  Sunday  night, 
in  a  bowl  on  a  writing-table ! 

It  was  very  hot  in  the  ward  to-day;  the  flies 
buzzed  horridly  up  and  down  the  window- 
panes. 

It  was  a  very  bad  day  in  the  ward.  Thirty-four 
was  very  low.  He  had  a  haemorrhage  yesterday, 
and  all  day  he  seemed  to  be  sinking.  It  was  to-day 
he  received  his  Croix  de  Guerre.  The  captain 
came  up  to  the  ward  with  another  officer  and  gave 
it  to  him,  and  read  his  citation  out,  standing  by 
the  bed.  But  he  seemed  scarcely  to  know. 

Several  other  decorations  were  given  also 
to-day,  downstairs  in  the  Salle  de  Jeu.  We  had 
much  to  do  in  our  ward,  and  I  could  not  go 
down. 

Our  little  17  received  his  Cross  and  also 
his  Military  medal.  He  managed  to  get  down- 
stairs and  stand  up  with  the  others,  most  of  them 
282 


Wednesday,  July  26th 

like  himself  on  crutches.  Yesterday  he  had 
news  of  his  mother's  death.  He  told  me  he  had 
never  had  a  father.  "II  du  etre  un  salaud,  ce 
type-la,"  he  told  me.  His  only  brother  had  been 
reported  missing  since  more  than  a  year.  He 
kept  calling  me  over  every  few  minutes — when 
he  was  back  in  the  ward,  and  in  his  bed,  very 
tired — to  show  me  his  medals  in  their  two  green 
boxes.  He  had  no  one  of  his  own  to  whom  to 
show  them. 

There  was  much  big  work  to  be  done,  and  the 
ward  was  so  clouded  all  day  with  the  choking  blue 
smoke  of  iodine  from  the  hot  washings  and 
dressings. 

Madame  Marthe  was  very  nervous,  and  Madame 
Alice  seemed  especially  sullen. 

I  wondered — was  it  that  her  poor  little  Jean- 
jean  is  worse  again,  there,  where  he  has  been  all 
these  months,  in  the  children's  hospital,  cared  for 
by  others  than  she  ? 

I  was  thinking  all  the  day  of  it,  and  never 
dared  to  ask  her. 

Madame  Marthe  stood  all  day  by  the  bed  of 
34.  She  would  say  to  him,  "Now  breathe, 
breathe.  Now  breathe. "  If  ever  she  stopped 
saying  it,  for  one  instant,  he  stopped  breathing. 
It  was  as  if  the  only  thing  he  understood  was 
that  he  must  obey  her. 

283 


Journal  of  Small  Things 

Madame  Alice  did  all  she  possibly  could  of  her 
work  for  her,  sullenly,  together  with  her  own 
hard  work. 

It  was  a  very  bad  day;  I  am  proud  to  belong 
in  such  days. 

I  was  thinking  very  much  of  the  garden  of  the 
sphynxes  and  white  peacocks,  that  is  in  ruin, 
and  of  the  tower  room  given  over  to  bats  and 
swallows. 

It  was  beautiful,  that  mood  which  is  gone, 
but  this  is  more  beautiful. 


284 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 
or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 


ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 
2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 

(510)642-6753 
1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books 

to  NRLF 
Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days 

prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

0  5 


VB  2104! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


1 


